


These Stars Defy Love, So I Close My Eyes

by Vanderhyde



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Castle AU, Fluff, I don't know what year it is but they know the word "babe" and colorful profanities, Implied Shiro/Allura - Freeform, Keith (Voltron) is a Mess, Keith is a Douchebag, Keith is a prince, Lance is a sweetheart, Langst, Multi, Praise Kink, Smut, Unrequited Love, i'm sorry in advance, there is pain in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-18
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-01-18 21:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12396900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanderhyde/pseuds/Vanderhyde
Summary: Keith is a prince next in line to the throne.Lance is a household servant.





	1. Juxtaposition

_Keith remembers a faint smell of poppies and lilies, his small feet half stuck, almost sucked into the muddy brown soil, the rustle of ticklish grass between his toes. He was laughing, overjoyed. He couldn’t remember what he was here for, a prince shouldn’t be basking in these situations. He is supposed to be at home in the castle, getting pampered and prepared for his first diplomatic dinner. But here he was, bare feet, a sweat soaked t-shirt clinging onto his healthy build, and his hands enveloped in a pair much thinner than his, fingers slightly longer, skin darker, voice one pitch higher echoing his laughter. Blue eyes stained his periphery of vision, nothing else. Those eyes blinked slowly, enthralled in the moment captured by Keith’s violet irises. “… won’t forget me, will you?” the figure asked, Keith’s vision darting toward the pair of lips moving and projecting the sound. Keith felt himself smile wider than he’s ever did in years. “I won’t, I promise.”_

Keith awoke with a start, half his hair covering one eye. Sunlight was bursting through his glass balcony door, the one he’s failed to close last night while he was gazing at the full moon above his head. Keith narrowed his eyes, the edges of his vision seeing burning white silhouettes before he started to register that someone was knocking on the double doors to his room. “Your highness,” said the muffled voice from outside. “Your wakeup call sire, you have an appointment in three hours.” Keith rubbed his eyes and cleared his throat before replying, “Yes Desmond, thank you.” He heard Desmond reply a faint ‘ _pleasure,_ sire’ before hearing his footsteps echo throughout the hall, the ones soon fading into nothingness. He ran his own fingers through his hair as he sighed, feeling the grease from last night’s pomade. A flash of blue eyes appeared as he blinked, earning a curious smile from Keith as the dream reoccurred to him. If only he could remember a name.

\--

It was four in the morning. The chickens were still blind for it was still dark out, the birds were chirping albeit reluctantly, almost inaudible from a mile away. The sun was shying behind a hill, and the moon was still ever present on the horizon, full, majestic, bright and beautiful, like someone he used to remember, like someone he used to dream of. Lance was already in his blue shirt and black overalls, his usual—his _only_ —attire. Lance sucked in a long breath of fresh air—as fresh as he may take, for no matter how fresh he claims it to be, it still withheld atoms of cow shit. As the idea occurred in his mind, Lance stopped sucking in his breaths and started exhaling, the puffs of air leaving his lips creating a billow of cold smoke before him. “Good morning!” Lance exclaimed at a passing neighbor. They gave him a reluctant wave before reentering their house, and Lance started marching toward the chicken coop, bare feet. 

\--

Keith sipped his earl grey, somewhat scalding his tongue in effect. But he liked it. His eyes were focused on the pages before him, a list of events that had happened this week, and events he had to attend. He sighed, eyes scanning lower and lower on the seemingly never ending list. He felt the presence of a household servant behind him, but he didn’t regard them. He knows for a fact that servants are trained to not look at royals in the eyes, never speak unless spoken to, and always reply in a polite manner, in the most minimum answer possible. Keith doesn’t really see the point of degrading his servants like his sisters and cousins usually do, so he tries his best to act politely toward them, regarding the fact that three quarters of his servants were actually people older than he was, and his mother had thought him to respect his elders at all costs.

The servant glided and moved graceful and fast, quiet, precise. Serving bread and jam on the tables, pouring glasses of water, taking and replacing bread knives and forks, removing dirty plates and replacing them in a split second, as if they were caught in action they would be sent to the dungeons. “Um, hello? I’m lactose intolerant?” Keith’s cousin, Leona’s voice cracked through the air, reaching his ears from across his seat. His eyes darted toward her, eyebrow raising. “Of course, milady, forgive me,” The female servant said, just above a whisper. She shifted behind Keith’s chair, noiseless and light, lifting the pitcher of milk up and away, before another, different servant appeared seemingly out of nowhere, replacing the pitcher with another, this one filled with white—slightly yellow—liquid, which was most likely soy milk. Keith rolled his eyes. “You’re not lactose intolerant,” He said, eyes meeting Leona’s gray ones. “I am today,” She said, stifling her laugh before she gave Derek, her brother, a high five. Keith rolled his eyes once more, feeling another servant move and shift around him. He was done with the list then, pushing back his chair and walked out of the dining room without waiting for his father, the king, to show up. He was irrelevant.

\--

Lance was sitting on a rickety stool that looked like if it had taken any more weight, it would break. Luckily for him, he was the lightest in the family—and the eldest—so he had to do three quarter of the chores listed on a brown reused piece of makeshift paper his mother had left him before she took off for the castle. Lance’s mother worked as a household servant in the Kogane royal household, and Lance wasn’t very fond of the fact. But that was the only job application that his mother was actually able to do, and was accepted in, so they had encouraged her to take the spot anyway, make at least a few gold pieces to feed Lance’s baby brothers and sisters. The rest of the gold that he makes from selling their farm’s produce was used as a life savings for him and his siblings—mostly his siblings—for Lance had said that it was indeed ‘ _too late’_ for him to gain adequate education, for he was turning twenty in a few months. He still had hoped from school when he was seventeen, but his hopes of ever being an educated individual had long since gone, whereas his focus is now only upon his siblings, and making sure they make it to and _through_ puberty, and receive education.

Some days, when the gold isn’t enough to buy food for all of them, Lance has to go through the night with an empty stomach, which explains his lanky features, all skin and bone and pure muscle from lifting heavy sacks of rice across the small village every afternoon, evening, and nighttime. While some nights, when it rained, and the hole in the roof rains over his brother’s bed, he would let him sleep in Lance’s bed, while Lance sleeps in the chicken coop. Or some days, in the mud pile with the pigs. He reasoned that it was warm around the pigs, and the mud was good for his skin. That must sound disgusting, but Lance had done it out of love. For no one deserves to live the life Lance is living. For Lance deserves the very worst of pain and hurt, while the people he loves deserves the world, the moon, the stars, the sun and the universe. Not to mention, has ahold of his heart.

\--

Keith sighed as his lower body submerged in the pool of warm water in his favorite deep jade emerald tub his servants had prepared him, he wondered whether it could be called a shade of jade when it was indeed an emerald—but then he gave up on figuring out his thoughts altogether. His hair was held up with a single band of rope that kept it from being soaked. He rest his back on the marble wall behind him, slumping as he inhaled the warm vapor of the bath water, eyes closed as he tried to recall the dream he had. But nothing came to him. Nothing but more confusion than clarity. He groaned, annoyed. He knew for a fact that it wasn’t just a dream. It actually occurred sometime in the past, when he had hit the exact age of thirteen years old, when he was already deemed old enough to attend galas and balls and diplomatic dinners. That was when his life had ended. He had cried and yelled and resisted, running as far as he could go outside the palace gates. _‘I won’t leave without mother!’_ he had remembered exclaiming—

“Your highness,” croaked the ever-so-familiar voice that he recognized as his advisor, Desmond’s. “Y-yeah?” Keith called back from inside the luxurious bathroom, half of his torso trying to emerge from the bathtub, straining to hear Desmond clearer. “You’re running a bit behind, Sire. Is something the matter?” Keith buried himself back down into the now lukewarm water. “No, I’m—I’m fine, Desmond. Was just thinking of what to wear to the event, is all." “Shall I get Madame Le Fleur, Sire?”

Madame Le Fleur was a ruthless old woman who has terrible taste in fashion, mismatched colors and outfits his father deemed acceptable. Keith reddened, shaking his head before exclaiming, “No, thank you, Desmond!” When Keith heard a sigh from Desmond, he bit his lip before spitting out, “Just get me that lady servant that I always ask for, the one with the kind eyes.” His lip was trapped between his teeth once more, nervous if that was the right decision or not. Royals were told never to remember servants’ names. They reasoned that they have much more valuable brain space to be filled with more adequate relevant knowledge than a scullery maid’s name, let alone how they look and how they are affected by the things royals do. They’re basically nonexistent lowlifes for these royals, Keith revels in disgust at the fact that he can’t even remember that nice lady’s name. She was old, probably around her fifties, her hair had whitened, and she had often talked about her children and Keith would listen while she mixes and matches items from Keith’s closet ready for him to try on, as he lies down on the bed on his belly, hands propped up on his chin as he actually pays attention and hangs onto every word she says as he smiles, silk robe moving against his newly bathed skin.

            “Missus McClain, Sire?”  
            “Yeah, her.”

\--

            Lance had never felt this hungry in his entire life.

He was carrying a paper bag filled with two potatoes and a small ration of chicken, only the useless parts though, the head, the neck, and the feet. That was all he got from the money he made from selling the chicken eggs and the carton of milk. _All he deserves_ he thought. Lance shifted his thoughts and started to think of a way he could whip up chicken soup by boiling water and the chicken parts, at least that would give it a bit of a flavor. He then thought of cooking mashed potatoes, but went against it and decided that he would just cook everything as a soup, so each sibling gets each portion. He sighed, and started to think about where to get the firewood to fuel the fire to cook lunch.

When he arrived home, he called out a weak ‘ _I’m home’_ before placing the lunch ingredients below the stove, so no one would sneak a bite or two to gain a head start. Lance grinned when he saw that the dishes had been done, but then frowned remembering that the water from the bucket they used to wash the dishes was the last of the clean water. He hung his head, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Dad, I wish you were still here to help me out,” He said, in a tone so low, no one could have heard him but himself, the angels by each of his shoulders, and god, perhaps. _If there even_ is _a god._ Lance thought. _No god would be this cruel, to let me live this way._

Suddenly his shoulders felt like the heaviest it has ever been in his entire life, then his whole body collapsed on him, his knees thudding against the stone floor, his head meeting the ground as his hands reached for his eyes, and his sobs were torn out of his throat, and the tears pouring down his face wrecked out of his system. He’s never cried in his entire life, but today, he was letting it happen as an exception.

            --

            It was an hour before the party Keith had to attend in the neighboring kingdom, and he still hasn’t figured out what attire he’s going to wear for the occasion. He sat in his blue velvet chair, leaning into the headrest as he looked into the vanity mirror before him. He touched his high cheekbone, before turning his face to reveal an ugly bruise from yesterday’s training with the chief commander, Shiro. Keith groaned, touching the purple looking line framing his cheek, as if it acted as a bronzer. He had taken such a hit that the chief had to apologize several times before he looked like he was about as good as crying. Keith had to convince him it was okay while holding back tears, wincing and giving Shiro a fist bump before patting him in the back and saying, “I’ll see you here next time tomorrow!”

Keith can’t help treating every staff with respect, he feels like he grew up with these people, felt like he’s been taken care of by these people, not his father, or his cousins, or his aunt. But Desmond, Shiro, the ever shifting cabinet of servants, and the trauma that’s forced him into the submission of maturity.

_I won’t leave without my mother!_

            Keith stared at his reflection, every freckle the sun has resulted on his fair skin, every scar he’s tried to hide, the big ugly bruise, his long black mane covering the top of his forehead, and his violet eyes. He stared deeper into his reflection, meeting his own eyes as the illusion reflected on the surface of the cold solid object. He remembered faintly of his mother, almost nothing, if he dared say. All he could remember was a midnight purple gown, violet eyes, ones just like his, and dark raven hair he’s tried to imitate for years now. He misses her, so much. He has no memory of her, but somehow he feels like they were somewhat similar. He remembers only thunder striking the grey skies, and his bare feet splintered in every type of rocks and stones as he splashed on every puddle of muddy water, every ragged breath and every sweat dampening the t shirt clinging onto his body, and the smell of lilies. The touch of a hand, a voice, and a pair of beautiful deep blue eyes.

            “You asked for me, Your Highness?”

Keith looked away from the mirror with a jolt, before smiling softly at the figure standing by his doorway. “I’m sorry if I’m intruding, I knocked the door several times but you didn’t respond and I thought—“

“No, no, it’s fine,” Keith said, standing up and grinning. “Missus if you don’t mind, I need you to help me pick out a few set of clothes,” He said, eyes down casted as a blush creeped up his neck. Mrs. McClain chuckled, nodding in response. She was the only servant that Keith felt comfortable with, and the only person that knows how to loosen up in Keith’s presence. “Well then, Your Highness, we have no time to waste now don’t we?” Keith shook his head, smile ever present. He watched as the lady walked into his walk-in closet and opened his wardrobe. Colors after color appeared before their eyes, Keith had to look away in order to not feel disgusted at all the colors beside monochrome ones.

“You can skip this one out, Sire,” Mrs. McClain said, smiling. Keith gave her a nod of approval, dragging his feet back to his vanity mirror and started applying powder on his bruise, attempting to conceal it from naked eyes. “How are your kids doing, by the way?” Keith said, tone of voice a bit loud in order for the servant to hear him from inside the walk-in. “Um…” He could hear her hesitating-- or probably thinking.

            “I gave them a list of things to do and stuff to fix, I hope by the time I return home by the beginning of fall they’ve finished,” She said, smile present and could be heard by the tone of her voice. “I miss them, sire. I worry for their health, their wellbeing. The eldest, has been known to push himself around too much, he adores his siblings too much, putting aside his needs in order to put them first. They always become a priority to them, and I worry for his happiness, Sire.” Keith knitted his eyebrows together, looking at his handiwork that has hidden the bruise pretty well. He winced as he listened to the servant talk, just the image of how hard her children must be working, regardless of their age, twists his heart and winds it up and makes it beat just a tempo slower, feeling like he was a disgraceful piece of shit. “I worry that I might never fulfill their needs, and one day when I would finally be back home after I retire—“ She stopped mid-sentence, the smile in her voice gone, replaced with the shaking sound of anxiety trembling in her vocal chords. “I fear that they will no longer be there.”

There was an uncomfortable silence, for Keith knew nothing to say. He doesn’t know how to reply to _that_. This was the first time she’s ever spoken of her concerns. Her stories of her children would often be about the times she spent with them while they were kids. The days on the farm, when their father was there to help them out financially. Now, Keith figured, that she might be working her ass off as his servant to pay for her children’s needs.

Keith bowed down his head in shame. He opened his mouth to say something, before he notice two sets of outfits was awaiting him by the bed. He gasped in awe, approaching Mrs. McClain’s handiwork. “Do you like it, Sire?” She said, already present behind him, smile seemingly permanent on her tired face. “ _Yes,_ I do,” Keith mumbled, picking out the first set off the bed. She managed to combine a maroon red waistcoat, with three golden buttons that go up to the bottom of his ribs. His innerwear being a crisp white shirt that feels soft against his skin, whereas his pants were above-the-ankles long, tight around the calf area, which was colored white with streaks of gold by its side, so subtle you might miss it if it weren’t for the room’s lighting. While she’s prepared a pair of knee high riding boots-- that should’ve looked horrible in any circumstance—but the second he put on the outfit laid out for him, it never looked any better. Keith spun around before a mirror, laughing in joy. “Mrs. McClain, you’ve done it again!” He exclaimed, pulling his hair up into a low ponytail, before spinning around to thank the servant once more.

            “Mrs. McClain?” He asked, when he didn’t hear a respond, noticing that she was no longer in the doorway as well. Keith stepped away from the mirror, fists hanging by his sides if he ever needed to lunge into defensive mode. “Mrs. McClain?” He echoes again, louder this time. Keith rounded his bed, found his servant lying unconscious on the floor by his nightstand. “Guards!” Keith exclaimed immediately, knees trembling as he crouched down to lift the servant’s head onto his lap, arms weakly dragging the upper half of her torso. “ _Guards!_ ” he exclaimed, tears hot in his eyes. “Guards help me _please!_ ” He started sobbing as tears poured down his face, his breath coming out in short spasms and panicked, labored chest heaving faster than when he’s found his mother bleeding to death on the ballroom floor.

“No, _no,_ please…” Keith sobbed, his mother’s face etched into his mind, burning every cell of his brain as it refused to conjure any other illusion. He bowed down his head, watching his servant’s eyes flutter open slow, albeit weakly. “Y-Your Highness I—“

Guards broke through his bedroom door, and Keith was left a sobbing mess on the carpeted floor as he was unable to do anything other than stare as another member of his family was being carried outside and out of his reach. He cried into his hands, visions of blood haunting him as the lifeless eyes of his mother reoccurred to him faster than he could stop it.  


	2. Escapism

Lance had gotten back up on his feet and was seemingly as chipper as ever before his little brother had managed to exit his bedroom. He was rubbing his eyes, indicating that he had just woken up from a nap. He walked with stuttered steps toward the back of the room that was the kitchen, and tugged on the bottom hem of Lance’s shirt between his thin forefinger and middle finger. “Laaaaance, I’m starving!” He cried out, whilst Lance just responded with a small smile. “Shh, don’t be too loud, you’ll wake your sister too,” He whispered, turning around to lift his small brother off the ground and propped up on his thin shoulder blades, one hand carrying the weight of his brother by his bottom with an affectionate cradle, while the other was stirring away at the broth cooking in the medium-sized pan, heat sizzling from the firewood a distance away from the bottom of the pan. Lance had distanced himself enough from the fire to prevent the touch of the hissing flames-- not being such a big fan of fire in the first place—but had distanced himself even further now that he was carrying his baby brother on one shoulder. He placed down the wooden spoon that was previously tangled between his slender fingers, taking one last glance at the pot on the stove before walking over to their makeshift dining table, placing his baby brother on the second hand, broken looking highchair. It was a hand me down that they’ve kept around for ages, they reasoned that they never really know when they would ever need to use it again, or maybe they could sell it secondhand—well, third hand basically—for a few pieces of gold that could afford them bread and a bit of butter for at least a day.

            His brother sat down obediently, crossing his arms before whining yet once more, “When is mommy gonna be home?” Lance darted his eyes around the room, nervous. The fact was that their mother never actually _is_ home—not for another month, according to Lance’s math, and his math was terrible.  Lance wracked his brain, trying to find and answer that didn’t have to dawn reality on his brother, for his mother had once told him to always pretend like she was home, like her presence was there every single day—to avoid irregularity. “Mommy is home when you go to sleep at night, sweetie. You’re just never awake enough to feel her kiss you on your forehead and tell you she loves you,” Lance had said as the outcome he deemed was better than the rest possible ones. His brother pouted. “I wish I could see her to tell her that I love her too…” He mumbles under his breath, and Lance suddenly wants to punch himself in the face. Lance places the lightest affectionate kiss atop his brother’s forehead, before turning back around to tend to the soup boiling in the pot over the burning crimson red fire. “Me too, buddy,” Lance said under his breath, followed with a sigh.

\--

            As soon as the event he had been to was finished, Keith all but rushed back to his royal household, expecting Mrs. McClain to be conscious after such long hours. But he thought against it, for she needed the rest. He decided on waiting for the daylight, but what if she won’t make it to the daylight? Keith brushed away the thought, and went back to the original plan. But as soon as he stood outside the door, Keith had been told to wait outside the servant’s quarters. He had been furious about it.

Keith went against the guards discretions, all but shoving into the enclosed space, fingers curled into the palm of his hand, clutched so tight that his knuckles started to turn a pale shade. His thoughts wandered around his head aimlessly, focus scattered around the event, Mrs. McClain, and the memories revolving around his mother’s death. He sniffs the air promptly, noticing the hint of cinnamon in the air and almost a sweet vanilla, before he looked back down at the floor and his feet as they shuffled against the marble floor. Keith stopped before a single bed, covered in dull gray sheets and a thin fabric used as a blanket. Atop it, Mrs. McClain laid weakly, her chest heaving slowly, her pale face almost camouflaging amongst the gray pillowcase under her head. “Mrs. McClain?” Keith had said, sounding almost scared and hesitant.

            Keith could see her open her eyes slowly, and his heart started swelling at the sight, almost relieved. For a second, he thought he’d lost her. “Your Highness forgive me, it’s a disgrace to be in such conditions before your presence,” She said, her voice a silent, raspy whisper against her thin lips. Her speech was interrupted by a cough that sounded painful to the throat, and Keith had internally winced at the sight. _This is all my fault_ , his head decided to recite over and over again, not helping a single bit. _My fault, my fault, my fault,_ it said. Almost to the point where he wanted to scream. The servant opened her mouth before Keith could muster a choked off apology. “Your Highness I have always had a very weak heart, I am not sure why it’s decided to act up now, but I would like to return to work as soon as possible, I promise. Nothing will disturb the servant line and this matter won’t affect the continuity of duties I will have to fulfill, and Your Highness I promise this disease isn’t contagious, you won’t have to—“

Without realizing, Keith had raised a hand, signaling for her to stop talking—for Keith’s heart ached at the way she is pleading to keep her job, the way she’s risking her life to make sure the continuity of the activities involving her presence won’t be disturbed. “I will not force you to keep fulfilling your duties when you are in a state of inadequate health,” Keith started, noticing how cold and stiff he sounded as his voice kept from trembling. His fists betray his stern voice, visibly white at the knuckles and trembling with either anxiety or just pure pity. But Keith knew better than to take pity upon others, it never develops them into better people, never make them learn their lesson. No, it wasn’t pity, it was empathy, other than the fact that he couldn’t for once look at this woman in the eye without feeling guilt trip his heart and mind, without feeling his heart jump to his chest, at the familiarity claiming his mind to the image of his mother. “I would grant you a retirement instead,” The servant’s eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly—“  
“I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Mrs. McClain. You told me you had a son once, one that could handle pressure and do what they’re told. I think it might be time for him to step up and fulfill new responsibilities.”

            --

            The air was cold, the smell fresh grass and leftover rain from last night filled Lance’s nostrils, motivating him further as he started to march toward the barn, carrying an empty gallon to be filled with fresh milk, whistling every now and again, a song that he remembers that his mom would sing to him before he sleeps reciting in his mind like a prayer, always on the back of his mind every now and again. Lance had never known life outside of his daily routine-- wake up at four, fetch water by the well, proceed to the chicken coop to gather the eggs, the barn to milk the cow, and by then it’s already around six in the morning. He needed to water the crops even though he doubt any of them would grow—he didn’t have a green thumb, even if they _did_ though, he could only sell around twenty potatoes for five pieces of gold, so he’d rather cook them for lunch and dinner—then he would take a short cleaning up by the river on the way to town to sell produce.

Go back home by eight o’clock, wake his siblings, and make sure they do their household chores, while Lance goes back to the river to wash their minimum amount of clothes, hike back home by nine thirty, hang wet clothes on the washing line before marching back to town to help part-time at Old Man Coran’s. Finish part-time by three p.m., buy a few ingredients to cook lunch with—this part sometimes doesn’t happen—walk back home and make lunch for his siblings, have a small meal for himself, then go back into town and help out Old Lady Haggar with her farming. She pays him a scarce amount but it was better than nothing. Return back home by 8 p.m., making dinner with the leftover ingredients from lunch, then boarding the windows and locking the doors, washing the dishes and be done by nine thirty. Sleep. Repeat. 

            But today, he found it rather annoying that there was a change in his daily routine. A slight ripple of a butterfly effect that seemed to have messed up his synchronized body and soul activities. A pea under his mountain of mattresses (that he does not own). A false note in a symphony that irritates his eardrums, opens his eyes as he widens them. His heart beats faster than imaginable, as his whistling stopped along with his tracks.

For a royal carriage was blocking the pathway into his home.

And it could only mean that his mother was finally home.

The empty gallon fell out of his grasp with a silenced thud against the grass. His eyes seemed to water endlessly, for it feels like he wanted to slap his mother for leaving him to such heavy responsibilities, yet wants to shower her in embraces for coming back home, gracing her with all he’s got. Never mind the chores he has to do, he’ll do anything his mother would ever request him to do. For this feels like a dream, he’s felt like it has been ages since he had seen his mother. But the one thing that rather bothers him is the fact that it isn’t yet the beginning of fall, not yet time for his mother to return just yet, but here she was. Maybe he had miscalculated.

But his heart stopped beating altogether when a man walked out of the carriage, and carried his mother in a stretcher. While another one in a black waistcoat walked up to him and cleared his throat. “Mr. McClain?”

\--

            Keith has been pacing around his room for seemingly ages. His mind filled with everything and nothing at the same time, it constantly pisses him off. He had on his training gear, but he didn’t feel like meeting Shiro and getting beat up again anytime soon. He sighed, plopping down on the edge of his bed, head in his hands. He hadn’t got much sleep with the way his dreams seem to be testing him, and also those pair of blue eyes that seem to be haunting him. It was like he knew those eyes somehow, remembers them and who they belong to. The deep blue that is able to pull him in to gaze at them for hours and days. If only he understood what it meant.

Keith heard a knock on his door as he visibly jolted from his seat, clearing his throat and exclaiming a ‘ _come in’_ before straightening up. Desmond walked into his room, eyes scanning the periphery of Keith’s room—which was a mess. Desmond opened his mouth but no sound would come out. So he shut them back up before he sent a knowing look at Keith. “Takashi is waiting for you by the training grounds, Your Highness,” he had said, the smallest of a respective smile on his thin lips under the graying moustache. “Ah, right it’s almost nine,” Keith said reluctantly, getting out of his seated position to glide over to his vanity, holding a single piece of string between two fingers as he whirled around to face Desmond. “Will that be all?” Keith asked.

“No sire, shall I get a maid to tidy up your quarters? They might have thought that you disliked the way they cleaned or perhaps might have done something wrong when you told them not to disturb you for the next three days.” Keith made a face.

“And besides, Sire. You haven’t had your quarters tidied up since the dark ages,” Desmond said, walking over to the window and gathering the beige colored curtains out of the way of the bright warm sunlight piercing the glass on the window. Keith narrowed his eyes, temporarily blinded by the current brightness of his room before laughing. “Piss off, Desmond. _Your mum_ hasn’t cleaned up my room since the dark ages,” He joked, chucking a pillow in his advisor’s way. Desmond had replied with a small chuckle. “She’s turning in her grave by the mention of her on your lips, Sire.” Keith laughed some more, tying up his hair and grabbing the fingerless gloves atop his vanity. Keith wasn’t worried at the chance of hurting Desmond’s feelings at the mention of his dead mother, for Desmond had admitted to never even _seen_ her in his life. He had always said that the king’s father had somewhat adopted him, and now he’s entitled to Keith’s father and their line of heir.

            “That’ll be all, thank you, Desmond,” Keith said, regal voice taking over the shadow of a child he thought he’d moved on from. Desmond bowed his head in the utmost respectful way, a smile still present on his face as Keith slid on his fingerless gloves and turning to walk out the door. “Oh, and Desmond?”

His advisor turned, black waistcoat fluttering slightly in the air, hands behind his back as he awaited his orders. “It saddens me at the thought of you getting old, please dye your moustache, it’s distractingly gray,” Keith said, glancing over his shoulder with a playful smile. Desmond returned the gesture with a grin. “It happens to all of us, Sire. We all would get old and buried someday,” he replied. Keith turned his head, no longer in a state of cheerfulness. “Yeah, truth hurts, Desmond.”

            --

            “You need me to _what?!_ ” Lance exclaimed over a whisper, making sure to not wake up his siblings. He glanced around the small enclosed space they called his home, then back to meet the eyes of the royal messenger, the one called Slav. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding,” Lance covered his mouth with a hand, then proceeding to rub his temples as he let go of a really heavy sigh. He then looks back up to meet with Slav’s small, deep green eyes, and said “You _are_ kidding, right?” Slav sighed as he stood, pushing back the rickety dining chair as he did, “I’m afraid not, Lance.”

“Your mother is terminally ill, and we need her to take her rest before she can go up and going back to work again,” He said, almost pacing around the small room. “ _If_ she gets up and going back to work again…” Lance muttered under his breath, one he thought Slav had heard, but ignored the remark. “Meanwhile roughly speaking, her—ehm, _debt_ of service to the king is not yet fulfilled.”  
‘ _debt of service, pssh yeah right.’_ Lance had thought, wanting to punch the messenger in his face before he remembered never to hate the messenger, only the message. He looks back up at Slav, snippets of what he was saying made it only part way into Lance’s conscious train of thought. “Meanwhile _you,_ Lance, are the only one who is actually old enough and available to lend a hand for the Kogane royal family— is this fact correct?” Lance sighed, remembering his _other_ elder siblings that has gotten off to several parts of the lands to find a field of work. “I guess—but who would take care of my mother while I’m away? Who would take care of my baby siblings?” His voice cracked slightly, making him curse in the back of his mind for being seemingly vulnerable in front of a royal palace apparatus. 

            “We’re sorry to say, Mr. McClain, but that—“ Slav walked toward the coat hanger in which his coat was already suspended above the ground, leveraged on a small peg, that in which he put on over his small frame, buttoning his sleeve, as if to wrack his brain to find the right words to say. He silently gave up, and said the only thing he was able to say as the messenger. “—is none of our business. For it is _your_ personal inquiry, and we do not have a bona fide enough relationship to provide you with such honorable services to answer your question,” Slav looks Lance in the eye, dreading what he had to say next. “You’re on your own, we’re afraid.”

Lance saw red litter his periphery of vision, rage boiling up his chest and ready to shout at Slav at that exact second. But he refrained. As for what Slav is saying is actually fact, and he knows this because he knows the content of his mother’s contract. The very same one she signed into before getting into the line of work she is designated to, until the number of years she had given service was as the number stated on the damned contract. “I see,” was all Lance could muster without visibly shaking in anger or sounding like he was about to cry at any moment.

“These were your mother’s personal belongings,” Slav continued as the other royal apparatus—the one who wheeled his mother’s gurney into the room—set a medium sized box on the floor next to the coat hanger. “And this is your uniform,” the man reached inside his mother’s box of belongings, pulling out a set of maroon outfits, and another set in black. “Red and black are the royal house’s colors, you see,” Slav explained to no one in particular. “You use the maroon paired with the black pants, and use the black paired with black as well. But you pair maroon paired with maroon when there is a royal event—say a ball or a gala,” Lance said nothing.

Slav took note of the awkward silence that hangs in the air, watches as Lance’s eyes zone out as he stared at the uniform laid out before his eyes. “Uh, we’ll let ourselves out. We expect you to be ready in an hour, you start working as of today,” Slav winced noting that every sentence that comes out past his lips edges Lance to more and more despair. “Please start to get ready as soon as you feel like it,” he added on a softer tone, opening and closing Lance’s front door. Lance was still staring at the uniform. He still was when he felt a tear roll down his chin.

He walked over to his mother who was already laid out on his bed, eyes closed peacefully, breathing steady but weak. He knows enough that she will be fine, for now. He walked back into the living quarters of his home, taking a small scrap of paper and putting his thoughts in writing, pining it against the cupboard where he once pinned his mother’s thoughts. He then gathered his belongings, he didn’t own much. A pair of sleepwear, shoes—terrible condition—and the necklace his father gave him before he died, when he was five years old.

Lance then took the uniform, then started to button the crisp white shirt, the one with the long sleeves and the simple bow tie. Then let the black vest wrap around his frail frame as he buttoned it in place. He stared at his reflection, feeling disgusted. He stilled, letting the tears brim and spill from his eyes when the rage flooded up past his lips in a silent scream, one he muffled with his hand over his mouth. He didn’t want to wake his siblings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! We appreciate feedback and comments on our work, so make sure you all do!  
> Drop a couple of kudos and recommend us to your friends, we don't bite!  
> \- V


	3. Erroneous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Way You Look Tonight - Frank Sinatra  
> \- V

Keith was annoyed. He had to attend yet _another_ royal ball, at the neighboring kingdom of Cordonia, to the royal household of the Altea family. Allura Altea was the royal princess of Cordonia. It has been ages since his kingdom and theirs had a coalition. They were on stable ground, but an attack from one another is a likely situation to have been met with each of the household’s fate. So Keith had to bring Commander Shirogane for his general security. And of course his trustworthy advisor, Desmond. They were both his best friends, nonetheless. And the royal highness wouldn’t have it any other way. If he was to spend the entire night in clad boots and tight waistcoats and heavy epaulets on his shoulders, he was ever too lucky to be spending it with his two best— _only_ —friends. But no, he wasn’t perplexed by the event itself—he finds princess Allura rather charming, whilst he enjoys their conversations on politics and international relations, he also enjoys their conversation about general things. ‘ _What’s your favorite flower?’ ‘What do you think your spirit animal is?’ ‘I’m sorry I didn’t know about your mother…’ ‘What do you think about social classes itself?’--_ No, what Keith finds rather perplexing is the fact that he knew nothing and felt like he _had_ nothing to wear. Keith finds himself pouting heavily before his vanity mirror, unable to even start to enter his walk-in to start mixing and matching.

What he didn’t notice, was the fact that Shiro had been standing in his opened doorway for quite some time now. He was standing tall with his arms crossed, dressed in his formal attire, epaulets, medals and all. His suit was maroon red, the household’s royal color. It stands to reflect bravery. Gold was also in fact their royal color, in this, reflected by the medals attached to Shiro’s chest and his epaulets. It stands for victory, which goes in with the theme of his medals of bravery. His hair—the one almost similar to Keith’s, with the slight difference of his long white streak—was tied up into a bun, jaw lined with stubble—and what seemed to be a potential goatee that he grew just to push at Keith’s pet peeve of bad goatees. But Shiro can basically pull off any look so, Keith doesn’t hear anyone complaining. Except maybe well, General Shirogane— Takashi’s father—himself.  Shiro cleared his throat, still leaning against the frame. “Your Highness, the carriage expects you in fifteen minutes,” He said, voice smooth as silk.

            Keith’s attention turned immediately toward the doorway, his cheekbones betraying a reddish shade. “Yes, of course—sorry to keep them waiting, Takashi,” Keith said, eyes tearing away from Shiro, an attempt to steady his racing heart—in which it ultimately failed. It’s not like Keith has a crush on Shiro,-- not anymore, at least. But that was an irrelevant fact that Keith chooses not to dwell on. He’d rather not remember the times when he was awkwardly hard in his training suit watching Shiro do stretches and warm-ups. In which in Shiro’s case was battling an army of ten people. Keith rocked on his heels, arms still crossed in front of his chest like a little kid. In which he was not anymore. His twenty first birthday is in a few weeks, and he dreaded the day that he would have to throw another ball, for what annoyed him the most was having to sit around doing nothing while people he didn’t even knew existed shook his hand and congratulates him for turning one year older, and closer to death.

“Keith?”

Keith spun around yet again, humming in response. “We’ve been standing here for _two_ minutes. Are you trying to ditch this gala on purpose?” Shiro raises an eyebrow. “If I say yes will you leave me alone or smack me in the head?” Keith replied, smirk playing on the edges of his lips. Shiro chuckled, a deep rumbling sound as he relieved from his position in the doorway, and took a few paces toward Keith. “I’m serious, Keith,” Shiro said, hands now dangling heavy by his sides. The tone of his voice was light, but Keith could tell the difference between when Shiro was serious and when he was joking around. Keith sighed. “I don’t know what to wear,” He said sincerely. “I sent away the maid that used to prepare my clothes for me cause she was ill, and now I’m left with my ugly sense of fashion and my stupid closet.” This time Shiro laughed. “Alright, alright, let’s help you out.”

\--

On the way to the palace, Lance only stared blankly at the road he was passing. He didn’t give two shits at the conversation Slav was trying to initiate with him, or the fact that Slav was explaining his job to him.  He had heard a few parts of the rules but other than that he didn’t really pay any attention. _You cannot speak to any member of the royal household, you cannot_ look _any member of the royal household in the eye, always bow your head submissively, and speak only when you are spoken to, and always get straight to the point. Remember, never use their names, use their titles and/or madam and sir or sire—_ Lance lost track of the rest. His eyes traveled over the passing road, the colors a blur that started to give him a headache. But he didn’t care, he was dreading the fact that here he was, barely twenty years old and already having a job. Well, on one hand he would be able to work for the money they need to find the cure for his mother’s illness. Then again, they said that all Lance’s mother needs was bedrest and plenty of water. But who would fetch the water from the well, when all his siblings aren’t old enough and strong enough to carry the pail?

Lance sighed, his thoughts running in and out of his head a million miles per second. _Maybe I should work with father in Crillia the second I turn twenty,_ Lance thought. It had never occurred to him that he eventually had to go overseas to the next kingdom to join his father in the mining business. He wasn’t really into the idea, to be fairly honest. But right now, he doesn’t have a choice anymore, does he? Lance went back to staring at the road unwinding before his blue irises.

\--

            Keith smiled, shook another pair of gloved hands before turning his head in Shiro’s direction. A handful of girls were around him-- as they would in every party Shiro manages to attend—they were all laughing and feigning innocence as their hands grazed above Shiro’s biceps, his elbows and his gloved hands, one carrying a glass of champagne while the other hung awkwardly by his hips. They all knew for a fact that Shiro was an impressive chief commander, with amazing stories that he captivates people with—the only thing he could rely on other than his charm and his big—erm—pride for the royal household. Shiro’s deep rumbling laughter echoes through the corner of the ballroom, and Keith turned his vision away to the top of the red velvet clad altar. His eyes met with King Alfor’s, deep blue and laced with kindness, he smiled at Keith. Keith returned the smile, finding his feet moving in the direction of the throne. “Your Majesty,” Keith managed, bowing. Alfor brushed the movement away with a wave. “No such formalities needed, Prince Kogane,” His voice bellowed, full with grace and prestige, so much that Keith wanted to _purchase_ that goddamn voice to use it to sing him to sleep nightly.

“Is Princess Allura around, if you find it upon my jurisdiction to ask, Your Majesty?”

The King chuckled, “Of course it is of your jurisdiction to ask of your betrothed’s being, Prince Kogane.” Keith flushed. “W-We’re not—um—with all due respect, Your Majesty I’m not—” The king’s laughter filled Keith’s ears. “I was just messing with you, Keith.” He whispered, winking in his direction. Keith didn’t take the heart attack he almost had as a joke, but he laughed nervously anyway. Although the princess _was_ stunning though, Keith wouldn’t reject the opportunity to ask for her hand in marriage any day. Why, Keith would fight wars for her, hang people for her, decapitate people for her, but won’t anyone? Just then, Keith’s eyes darted to the far end of the ballroom, where Allura was striding in, violet dress hugging her features beautifully, her long hair draped above her shoulders, as it rarely happened.

            Keith felt a blush rise to his cheeks as he glanced down at his outfit of choice, once again contemplating whether or not he looks like a clown, or maybe his trousers and coat were mismatched, or maybe his shoes doesn’t go with his coat or was the epaulets too much, or was the thought of not doing his hair up a good idea or a bad one, or— “Keith,” a voice snapped him out of it. Keith looked up to see King Alfor smile upon him. “You look great, don’t worry.”

Keith stammered out a thank you before bowing toward the king, and making his way to the center of the ballroom to meet Allura. Keith stuttered in his steps, hands snaking their way behind his back as he strode along, not minding the people whispering about him or the princess. _So far so good…_ he uttered in his head before the princess once again steps into his field of vision, now close enough to touch. Keith’s lips stretched into a smile as he bowed before the princess, taking her hand in his. “Your Highness,” Keith greeted, placing a light kiss on Allura’s knuckle. She suppressed the giggle rumbling down her throat as Keith let go of her hand, and she bowed before Keith in return, the movement silent and entwined with grace. Keith could hear violins in the background, as the crowd around them shifted into position, making room for the prince and the princess to glide upon.

            “May I have this dance, Princess?” Keith muttered, voice as low and gentle as he could muster, eyes never leaving Allura’s as he extended another hand, ignoring the drumming against his ribcage and in his pulse. He’s never been this nervous in his life. Or perhaps, he’s had so when he was younger. But that wasn’t a time Keith wished to dwell upon at the moment, for he only invested his thoughts to the right moves of the dance he was going to make. Allura took his hand, her touch sending jolts to Keith’s spine that sends him plummeting back to reality. He smiled, full of delight as they glided to the soft music resonating just beyond their ears.

Keith had never been a good dancer to begin with. His stance had always been wrong, mixed up with fighting stances, and the movement of his feet were ones that you would take if you were to evade an enemy. But Allura went with it as she would, accepting every close-calls that Keith was about to step on her small toes with a smile ever present on her beautiful face. Keith’s head churned with movements as he processed the melody, smile faltering on his lips as his mind kept working, tackling the situation with battle schemes and coordination—before Allura slips her hand away from his shoulder, bare fingers grazing his cheek before her palm cradled his left jaw. Keith tensed at the intimate gesture, before relaxing into it, melting into Allura, almost leaning into her touch. “Stop thinking so much,” She whispered, grinning. “Just dance with me, Keith, is that so hard to do?” Keith replied her grin with a smirk of his own. He shook his head, grip on Allura’s waist loosening into relaxation.

            Keith never looked away from Allura’s eyes as he opened his mouth hesitantly, closed it back up before licking his lips and managing to mute the thundering of his heart before his lips managed to produce the sound:

“You look beautiful tonight, Allura.”

\--

Lance arrived at the castle, his eyes scanning around his new surroundings. He was taken aback by how beautiful the scenery actually was, rather than it be dull and grey in his head. It wasn’t at all the grey prison walls Lance had conjured within his imagination. The castle looked more like a mansion, expanding in length not height, like any other castles would—Lance thought. Lance couldn’t describe the castle even if he wanted to, because the skies had gone dark around them. It took them the whole day to travel from Lance’s village to the castle, all because Lance was living in the area furthest away from civilization. But Lance wasn’t a hillbilly, he knew his manners and his place, his duties and what to say, what _not_ to say. His mother has taught him that much before she left, and his father had taught him a thing or two about muscle and hard work, so Lance wouldn’t have to be a rug under everyone’s feet, and fight back when he needs to.

Slav manages to clear his throat behind Lance, who was at least a good feet taller than Slav. Lance turned, eyes downcasted—trying his best not to look at Slav in a disrespectful manner. Lance stares at his feet instead. “Mr. McClain would you follow Mr. Garrett down to your quarters, please?” Lance turned his head toward the big muscular figure silhouetted by the lit doorway. “Hiya,” the figure said, waving awkwardly. Lance cocked his head to one side, scanning the figure head to toe. He had tan skin, a shade lighter than Lance (lucky guy, didn’t bake in the sun as long as Lance was), a button nose with a wide, square jaw and hair that was slicked to the back, a few strands escaping his makeshift bandana. He was wearing a crisp white shirt matching Lance’s own, with red trousers and an apron tied around his lower half. “Well, come on now, I don’t have all night,” Mr. Garrett said, turning his back and walking back into the door where he came from. Lance snapped out of his trance, grabbing his stuff and rushing to keep up with Mr. Garrett.

            Once indoors, Lance could see Mr. Garrett much better. He looked over his shoulder to scan Lance head to toe, eyes almost judging Lance’s scrawny figure, almost like a household feline judging a street cat on first glance. Lance’s eyes wandered throughout the room, one now he recognized as a kitchen. A very big one at that. Lance saw limbs working through cutting boards and tasting liquid broth in the pans that smelled delightful, Lance’s stomach grumbled at the thought, he hadn’t eaten a bite that day. “Where’d you come from, Mr. McClain?” He asked over his shoulder, a smirk decorating his features. “Um, please, call me Lance. I’m sure we’re not many years apart anyway,” Lance said, scratching the back of his head. Mr. Garrett turned to face him, and Lance could see the baby faced figure better in the lighting. He smiled toothily, extending a hand. “Call me Hunk,” he said, as Lance took his hand to shake. Hunk had a very firm grip that didn’t betray his muscular form. Lance grabbed his shoulder in fear of dislocating the joint. Hunk opened his eyes, all serious. “But that wasn’t my question, Lance. Where’d you come from?”

“Aramore,” lance answered, eyes facing the floor as his feet shuffled nervously against the polished ceramic floor underneath him. “Oooh, Aramore has the best milk produce in the vicinity, did you contribute to that matter, Lance?” Hunk had continued walking through the kitchen, heading toward a pair of double doors that seemed to be made from metal. Hunk stopped where he stood, turning toward a table where three plates and a bowl was served. Hunk sniffed the dishes, smiling. “Good job on that one Steph,” Hunk said to a lady walking by. Steph, who had blonde hair tied up into a bun under a hairnet and an eyepatch over her left eye, grinned at Hunk. “Thanks Hunk, give it a taste would ya?  Leona Kogane could be such a bitch sometimes,” Hunk grimaced, placing a finger over his lips. “Now, now Steph, that’s not how we treat royalty,” He said, a smile etched on his lips. Steph covered her mouth dramatically, gasping and pretend-crying. “Oh _no,_ please don’t have my head, Your Majesty!”

Hunk’s laugh bellowed at that, then he patted Steph on the back before his eyes drifted over to Lance. Lance swallowed, avoiding Hunk’s stare. “Why don’t you have a taste, Lance? Let it be uhh, a first impression toward the royal kitchen,” Hunk said. Lance looked up, expecting a mean glare or a sarcastic grin, but Hunk was smiling at him, eyes kind and friendly.

Lance shook his head in spite of the hunger roaring in his ears, “I couldn’t possibly, Sir.” Hunk and Steph looked at him as if he was crazy. “ _Sir_?” Hunk said, laughter in his voice apparent. “No no no, that just won’t do, Lance!” Hunk exclaimed, reaching for a spoon on the other side of the metal table. “There is no need to call us by titles here-- we’re all friends! Aren’t we, Steph?” Steph nodded furiously, soft smile etched on her uneven lips. “Now it’s _obligatory_ for you to taste the food Lance,” Hunk said, handing over the spoon. Lance took it in his hand, fingers entwining with the handle. He dipped it shyly into the bowl of soup, the broth rather brown and thick. Lance sniffed the broth, smelling a hint of ginger. Then he stuffed the spoon in his mouth, eyes widening at the taste. “This is _gooood_ ,” Lance groaned, taking another spoonful of the broth. He couldn’t describe the taste, it wasn’t a savory type of broth, rather kind of sweet. Like soy sauce and ginger, mixed with some spices he couldn’t name. “What’s in this?” Lance asked, eyes glimmering. “A chef never reveals their secrets,” Steph mused, walking over to the table on the far corner. “You mean _magicians_ ,” Lance called out, smiling. Steph turned, placing a finger over her lips, shushing him. Lance and Hunk laughed. Lance felt at home already. He should thank Hunk for that later.

\--

Allura’s laughter was music in Keith’s ears, as he echoed the sound. They were outside in the gardens, Allura’s violet dress looking rather a soft blue under the moonlight, Keith noted. “How many times did I step on your foot, Princess?” Keith mused, eyes meeting Allura’s under his lashes. Allura laughed again, “Around three times Keith, I lost count,” She replied him, her hands clutching her abdomen as she continued to giggle. “Oh, I’m so _sorry_ ,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. Allura nudged him in the shoulder playfully. “Stop, you weren’t _that_ much of a terrible dancer, I’ve met worse,” She said, meeting his eyes once again. Keith smiled, the silence ringing in their ears. But not the kind that was awkward or tense, just one that was comfortable, like speaking through each other’s eyes. Allura was the first to look away, hand playing with a strand of hair that made it past her shoulder. Keith hadn’t stopped staring. He smiled, noting each and every feature on Allura’s beautiful face under the basking moonlight, then reached a hand out to brush the strand of hair away from her face. Allura looked straight into his eyes, curious.

“Do you think they would arrange a marriage for us, to adjoin our kingdoms?” She said, voice above a whisper. Keith looked at her with soft eyes, blinking once and twice not to miss a second of the view before him. Keith pondered in his head, thoughts processing what Allura had just said, then opened his mouth to respond, “I wouldn’t mind if they did,” in a voice no softer than Allura had mustered. Allura’s skin flushed a red shade, eyes darting away from Keith’s stare.

Keith shifted, his one hand finding Allura’s grasping it under his fingers. The other made its way under Allura’s chin, turning her to face him. “I wouldn’t mind at all, Allura,” Keith whispered, pulling Allura’s chin into him, his head leaning forward, breath catching in his throat. Allura visibly hooded her eyes, head leaning into Keith’s—

“Sire,”

Keith pulled away faster than he could evade an enemy’s attack, Shiro’s voice echoing in the air. Keith cleared his throat, eyes meeting Shiro’s. “Pardon my audacity Your Highness, but it’s getting rather late, and the party has begun to disperse. Do you wish to leave soon or would Your Highness rather stay a bit longer?” Shiro asked, eyes darting once and a while to Allura, who was staring at the ground and tugging at her hair, face now redder than before. Shiro looked away from the princess, meeting Keith’s eyes once again. “Uh, yeah, we’re leaving soon Commander, thank you.”

Shiro nodded, bowing once to Keith and once more to Allura. “Your Highness,” Shiro greeted Allura, in which she responded with a stammer of a nod before Shiro walked back into the ballroom. Keith stood on his feet, brushing off his coat. “Sorry about that, Princess, that was rude of me,” Keith muttered. “What are you apologizing for?” Allura replied. “There’s no need to apologize,” she continued with a smile that could bloom a flower. Keith grinned, bowing. “I guess we’ll meet each other elsewhere,” Keith said, taking her hand in his. “Farewell, Princess. Until we meet again,” He said, kissing Allura’s knuckle before setting her hand down and turning to walk in the direction of the ballroom. Allura stood after a moment of silence, steadying her racing heart. She walked indoors after a few moments, only to immediately walk into Shiro.

            Shiro steadied her arms, holding her under a firm grip. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was g—“ Shiro stopped mid-sentence, eyes widening at the figure he had clutched under his grip. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” Shiro said, hands letting go of Allura in a quick second. He bowed down his head, the scar across his nose betraying a red shade, a blush creeping up his neck and ears. Allura looked just as shocked as she went back to tugging her stray hair, “It—It’s no trouble at all, Commander,” She muttered, a smile creeping up to her lips along with a blush. Shiro steals a few glances in Allura's direction, and found her just as flustered as he was. It wasn't usual that Shiro would stammer and blush under simple circumstance, maybe the princess was an exception of a reason for the commander to act in such a way. Shiro looked back down on the floor, scanning the tips of his boots like it withheld the world's most curious mysteries. _Say something goddamit_ , he spat at himself in his thoughts. 

“K-Keith likes you a lot,” Shiro managed, then facepalming internally. “H-He talks about you often, m-Milady,”

Allura giggled. Shiro’s knees went weak.

“He does about you too, Takashi.”

Shiro died. Time of death: 00.25 AM, cause of death: Internal combustion.

“D-does he now? Better be nothing but the good stuff,” He managed, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms proudly, epaulets moving with the motion, as if to emphasize his incumbency.

“Hahaha, don’t worry, he mainly talks about how _strong_ you are, and how much you give him a hard time in training, also the fact that he wants to be just as good as you one day,”

“He really said that?” Shiro’s arms fell back to his sides, proud shadow gone now replaced by a humble puppy standing under the rain.

Shiro met the princess’s eyes, watching her blush under his gaze. “Yeah, he did,” she smiled. Shiro returned the smile, then bowed. “I must get going, Your Highness, forgive me if I were to cause you discomfort during our conversation,” Allura shook her head, frantic. “You caused me no such thing, Commander.” Shiro smiled in her direction once more, then walked past her toward the ballroom, to the opened doors of the foyer, and Allura watched him leave through the doors, as her heart hammered in her chest even more than before.

Shiro had around five women ready for him to ask for their hand in marriage, yet he seeks the woman he knew he won’t be able to obtain. Only gets weak for the woman he knows would never feel the same way about him. He suppressed the winding in his heart, and the chokes back the shallow jab he felt in the chest as he walked tall and proud into the awaiting carriage in the lobby.

\--

Lance shuffled into the room Hunk had pointed out for him, finding a small space cramped with a single bed with metal floorboards and legs, a thin mattress and a plain grey blanket. It had a single pillow and one bolster. In the corner, was a small wardrobe that would fit at least five hangers, and in the corner opposite from there, is a vacant wall with a small round mirror and a humble sink, with a bucket to the left. He hopes the bucket isn’t for what he thinks it’s for. Lance groaned, falling on his back on the bed. Only then did he notice the small nightstand with a kerosene lamp flickering next to his bed. And for once Lance was grateful that royals were considerate people. Lance glanced at the square wall clock next to his wardrobe and sighed. 01.20 AM. He should get some rest soon.

But he just couldn’t. Lance kept thinking of his baby brother that would cry if Lance didn’t sing him a lullaby to sleep, his sister that couldn’t sleep with an empty stomach, and his mother. Who was now ill in bed and Lance couldn’t care for, while the castle wouldn’t pay for their expenses. Lance wonders what they would have for breakfast tomorrow, or do they have clean laundry to put on tomorrow. Lance tossed and turned in his bed. He misses them dearly.

_Lance was standing in a field of flowers, his favorites. Poppies and lilies. They were his mom’s favorite too, and Lance wanted to bring them back home for his mom to put in a makeshift vase, the colors would decorate his living space like nothing else would. And the smile Lance would receive from his mother is one that Lance wouldn’t compare to anything else. Lance loved being praised by his mother, it made him feel special, like he wasn’t just another burden upon his mother’s shoulders. But when Lance arrived at the field of flowers, it had begun raining, and the soil had formed into mud under his feet. Lance loved the mud, he didn’t mind getting dirty. Lance bent down to gather a few of the purple colored poppies, his father’s favorite, and gathered the yellow lilies, his mother’s favorite. Only then did Lance hear someone crying, and he stopped in his tracks. Before him a young man his age was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees toward his chest, and he was sobbing. Lance could tell that he was in great pain. Lance walked up to the boy, tucked a lily behind his ear. The boy jolted under the movement, sobs stopping abruptly as he turned his head over his shoulder to meet Lance’s eyes. Lance grinned at the boy. “Don’t cry, Princess,” Lance remembered saying. “I’m no princess—” They replied._

Lance awoke to the sound of an alarm, and his eyes jolted open in an instant, feet finding purchase on the ground as he grabbed at the front of his shirt, started unbuttoning it to change into a new pair. He sniffed his arms and under, making a face. He took the bucket from the corner, filled it with water from the sink, and started dipping a towel he’s found inside the wardrobe, dabbing at his body with the now damp cloth. Lance gazed outside the small window before him, all he sees is grass, still dark with the moon still decorating the skies above. Lance smiled at the moon. “I dreamt of you again, moon,” he muttered under his breath. “I hope to see you again soon, I haven’t forgotten you one bit,” he said, eyes glazed over. “Just like I promised.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forever a Shiro stan. Did we mention he was my husband?   
> -X


	4. Rendezvous

Keith’s sandal clad feet shuffled against the marble floors as he made his way to the dining room for breakfast with Desmond ever present at his side. Keith was only half listening to the things Desmond was listing, his head still somewhere around Cordonia and his time with the princess. His eyes were glazed over, still half asleep as his thoughts wander aimlessly around him. Keith had dinners to attend to tonight, and he was thinking about getting a haircut. Wouldn't be too damned short of course but he was considering the idea. Shiro isn’t much of a fan of his long hair, and Desmond had told him to go get a haircut since the last year. It wasn’t a _mullet_ \-- it just looks like one.

He has another training session with Shiro tomorrow, but he said he had to cut the training shorter than the usual two hours that they always do. Matter of personal inquiry, Shiro had explained. Well, not like that explains much but Keith hated to pry on his personal life, as much as a friend he is. Keith yawned. He wasn’t usually this tired in the morning, maybe he needs an extra sip of tea today. Keith opened his mouth to speak to Desmond, before a tall figure bumped into Keith. As Keith staggered on his feet, Desmond failed to reach for him, alas the tall figure grabs Keith by the wrist, and steadies him.

Keith has never been a morning person. That’s why he never attended morning courts and conferences. He reasoned that it would break his composure and nice person play for the rest of the day, and Keith hated nothing more than acting like a prick to the people around him. But today-- bless the soul of the person that almost had him sprawled on the floor and screaming for an execution of the man who ran into him—Keith wasn’t feeling much like himself.

Keith eyes the man standing before him. Pair of irises trailing from the fingers clutching his wrist, the skin attached to bones and muscle tinted copper tan—almost a warm shade of caramel. And up higher as his eyes trailed, Keith was met with a layer of white fabric embracing a steady forearm, caramel skin hidden under said fabric, revealed slightly only by the roll of the sleeves—one that Keith was sure of, had broken staff rules. He glanced up higher and higher, onto a strong upper arm, the muscles straining underneath white shirt, holding Keith’s weight with a single grip, not letting him falter, nor giving him a chance to slip through his fingers to hit the ground below him. Such an assuring gesture, one that withheld itself in one single grasp of a wrist. Keith was intrigued now by the person before him, as his eyes ventured further onto the person’s lanky shoulders. He then faltered in his fascination, pondering in what kind of man of such skin and bones was able to hold his weight steady. Then his eyes met the pair that was already staring deep into his own, seemingly enthralled by Keith’s violet irises. Such a shade of violet so soft, yet the look in his eyes so sharp. Creating such juxtaposition toward the scene, his pale skin matching the shade of his eyes, yet the same being of contrast to it. And it was safe to think that it very much brought out Keith’s eyes like they were two pairs of the same attractive likeness, to make it seem like it seem to be deeper than it might have actually been.

Keith blinked at the person before him, the pair of blue eyes that has claimed so much familiarity in his head catching him off guard for a brief moment as their eyes met. But he cannot seem to pinpoint where he’s known those pair of eyes before, the exact same shade, the exact same look, the curve in his eyes, the flutter of his eyelashes, the innocence in them now replaced with something else Keith couldn’t name. _Allura’s eyes, maybe?_ Keith thought to himself, before shaking his head mentally. No, they weren’t like this, _different._ Keith’s felt like he’s woken up every morning next to them, he’s felt like those pair of eyes, these exact same shade—had shared so many things with him before, like they withheld so much memories. Keith knew those eyes _so well_ , but he didn’t at the same time. _What an enigma._

            The fingers circling Keith’s wrist loosened, and Keith balanced back on his feet, standing up straight as the warmth on his skin left a tingling sensation in its wake, goosebumps rising where the fingers had just been, and up along Keith’s arm. Hairs stood on end behind his neck, and he had to look up at this stranger, for he turned out to be taller than Keith was. Keith felt so small right then, under his gaze, like he’s been before. So bare, so candid under the pair of blue eyes undressing him little by little, scrap by scrap, but thorough, with loving hands and brushes of fingertips atop his skin alighting fire in his heart and in his bones, scanning Keith’s body up and down and back again, like he was trying to comprehend who he ran into. As if he knew Keith as well—who didn’t? Keith _was_ the prince, after all. Anyone in the castle should know most of all. But no, it wasn’t a mere known of names and titles or existence, it was like he was trying to remember who Keith _was_ when he met him—if they’ve ever met before—in which Keith doubts.

The tall stranger tensed as his eyes trailed back upward, meeting Desmond’s. Desmond’s eyes widened, mouth curving into an unamused frown as he cleared his throat. The stranger seemed to have understood, bowing his head down in shame the instant after, moving out of Keith’s path as he gave Keith a shy bow of his upper body. “Forgive me, Your Highness, I was in such a rush I—“

 _A servant?_ Keith’s thought echoes. Surely he must’ve seen him around if he was a servant of the royal household, right? So why can’t he remember ever being introduced to him like he is to every other servant in the house? _A spy, perhaps? No, no that’s ridiculous. Impossible, almost stupid! What are you even_ thinking _, Keith?_

Keith opened his mouth to muster a reply, but then Desmond stood between the way of him and the tall servant. “Where are your manners, boy? You are _never_ to be allowed to _speak_ to the prince, you incompetent fool, see to it that you immediately ask of your head servant to explain to you again the rules!” he barked at the servant’s face, making him flush an embarrassing shade of red-brown under Desmond’s gaze, head hung lower due to the shame as he shifted and rocked on his heels. Keith felt bad right after, his lips pursing into a frown almost disguised and seen to as disgust.

“Yes Sir, it won’t happen again.” The servant was about to add something to his statement, but decided against it. He moved away from Keith and Desmond faster than the old advisor could stop him, silent and elegant, unlike his manners toward royals. His long legs taking so much space in his paces that he crossed the hallway in less than minutes. Record time, Keith must say--considering  _his_ short legs. “What _audacity_ ,” Desmond scoffed, shaking his head. “I do not understand what they see in servants nowadays,” he added. “What kind of labor do you think such a lanky child would be able to do around this castle? _Useless,_ ”

_Child._

Of course, Desmond took it that the servant was a child, he looks barely over eighteen, with the uniform around his features oversized, and his hair a mess and so was his manners and his use of vocabulary, Keith manages in his train of thought. Yet again, Keith was barely over eighteen himself, _well,_ literally not so, but if Desmond could call that boy a child, he would call Keith one too. Keith had to jog to catch up to his advisor’s brisk pace, more like a child now than he ever once, as he was struck with the sight of such blue eyes again. Keith slowed down as he walked pace for pace with Desmond, their steps resonating in sounds among the halls, ringing louder in Keith’s ears as his thoughts continued to wander.

“Right then, where were we, Sire?” Keith was looking over his shoulder when Desmond had turned to face him, caught his eyes lingering over the spot where the servant stood just moments ago. They were wide and laced with curiosity as his forefinger rubbed over the patch of skin on his wrist in slow circling motions, as if the hand grasping his wrist with such a grip had left a residue on his pale skin. It wasn’t of any racism motives, Keith wasn’t that kind of person. But alas, Keith still felt the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention, as if his mind scanned his memories over and over again for the same pair of blue eyes, recalling. _Please, please remember_.

“Sire, are you listening to me?” Desmond snapped his fingers before Keith’s eyes, continuing. “Is something the matter? Would you want me to fire that servant from before?” Keith put his hand up faster than Desmond ever could finish a sentence, looking back at the spot once more, where he had been earlier. “I know him from somewhere,” Keith muttered under his breath. “Like in a dream or, a memory… Maybe he attended a ball before?” Desmond grabbed hold of him by the upper arm, the touch so soft yet it made Keith jolt with energy all the same. He returned back to normal in a brisk second, reminded of his duties, his head cleared of any thoughts of the pair of blue eyes _and_ the tall stranger. “Sire, we must not run behind,” Desmond stated simply.

Keith’s eyes glanced back over his shoulder once more, then lingers. He swiftly turns to catch up with Desmond, taking a left down the seemingly never ending hallway.

“I need his name, Desmond,” Keith managed with a smile.

\--

Lance rushed into the kitchen, his back meeting the cold metal doors behind him as he slid to the floor, heart racing in his chest and thudding in his eardrums, his breath coming out in ragged gasps and a short, fast pace as his chest heaved and collapsed at a continuous, worrying speed rate. He wanted to scream his frustrations out into the open, but found a strong hand clutching his shoulder instead. Lance tensed under the contact, eyes closing shut as he flailed his arms wildly around. “Hey! Hey, Shh… there, there, it’s okay… Hunk’s here, buddy. Hunk’s gotcha. Shh… Calm down…” Lance melted into his touch, relaxing under muscle and the smell of caramel on the cuff of Hunk’s uniform. Lance breathed it in deeply, the sweet smell foreign to his nose that had been accustomed to the smell of manure and grass in the early mornings, of dews and lilies in the middle of dawn, and started to adjust itself to the sweet wafting smell drifting around in the kitchen air. Lance shut his eyes, cheek resting against Hunk’s soft muscly shoulder as he took another deep gulp of air on Hunk’s command. He was soon breathing normally again, and his hands started stroking at Hunk’s in soft circles, calming himself down before he opened up his eyes. Before him stood a young lay holding out a tray with long ginger hair that she held up into a ponytail. Her amber eyes were looking down on him and Hunk as Lance quickly tried to scrambled to his feet and fail.

“I don’t wanna know what’s going on here—but what’s going on here?” She said, crossing her arms almost bossily, but failed due to her short figure. Lance looked up at her, tilting his head to one side, confused on whether he should fear her out of her authority or say ‘aw’ cause she was the smallest human being he’s ever laid eyes on. Well, she was taller than his brother and sister, though. But they were kids, and she was a considerable adult, yet she was still such a petite figure. She had on a black coat with a gray undershirt, long black pants that ended in a pair of black mary janes that was tapping against the kitchen floor. She had freckles littering the bridge of her nose and the small of her cheeks, sprawling almost to the midst of her cheekbones, betraying the formal attire that she was wearing. She had a cute pointed nose, just enough for the tip of it to highlight under the warm yellow light of the kitchen.

“Katie, I think Lance here ran into either Leona or Desmond,” Hunk frowned in response, and Lance took her name into memory. _Katie. Short, cute ginger, small human being. Noted._ Lance’s mind processed. “Hunk, _come on_ we musn’t dilly dally!” She exclaimed, tugging Hunk by the ear till he stood up, reciting a mantra of ‘ow’s. “Since when do you use words such as _dilly dally_?” Hunk said, rubbing the shell of his ear that’s turned red under Katie’s fingers. Lance cowered to his feet, brushing off his uniform and standing up straight before Katie. He has the feeling that she wasn’t kidding around. “Lance, Mrs. McClain’s son, I’m sure?” She asked, extending one hand for Lance to shake. Lance took it, before Katie yanked him forward and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

            “Listen here, _Lance_. I don’t know what Hunk’s been feeding your brain, but here we do _not_ mess around, and I am here not only to make sure that the jobs I have distributed among the servants get _done_ , I want to see them done _neat_ , the way the royals would. I don’t like slackers, _Lance_ ,” She spat his name like it was venom in her mouth—or curdled milk. “I choose not to establish and have any affiliations with _slackers_. I only hope you’re smart enough not to slack as long as I’m head-servant. Don’t get dirt on my name, _Lance._ ”

Katie lets go of Lance’s collar as he backs away slowly, nodding to say that he understood. “Are you _done_?” Hunk said, raising an eyebrow as he looked down at Katie. “Yeah, yeah I am,” She grinned, voice almost playful as she patted Lance on the back. “Nice to meet ya, Lance.”

Lance watches her leave the kitchen, half skipping on her toes, then greeting another servant with a high five. “What is _wrong_ with her?” Lance said, half whispering as if Katie had ears and eyes everywhere. “Yeah, I don’t know either. But she’s a real nice person though!” Lance stared back toward the door he came in from. “Hey, are you okay?” Hunk grabbed him by the shoulder again, then placing his palm on Lance’s forehead to see if he had a fever going down. “Why were you hyperventilating?”

Lance laughed it off, _it’s nothing, I’m fine_ , he says. Contradicting the fact that his heart’s never hammered so hard his entire life before. “The moon,” Lance muttered. “Uhh, what?” Hunk craned his neck to hear Lance better.

“The moon. I saw my moon.”

\--

 _Keith was staring at the endless rows of his wardrobe. Hundreds of hangers of clothes staring back at him, taunting him to_ pick one _. Keith crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, ignoring the pleas of the fabrics decorating his field of vision. He shut his eyes. “Need help?” A familiar voice rang in his ear. Keith turned his head, and he soon found himself grinning. “Hi,” Keith greeted, his heart hammering in his chest like it was going mad. The tall servant he saw from earlier—a name was scratching at the back of his head,_ begging _to be remembered, but Keith couldn’t possibly pin point one name out of hundreds of thousands of them. So he rolled with it. The servant was at his doorway, leaning against it, smile etched on his face that could only be translated as playful, almost annoying. “You’ve come here to help me?” Keith said, voice sultry. His heart was wild, the thudding drumming in his ears as he turned from his seemingly never ending rows of clothes toward the taller male. “Hmm, I don’t see a problem,” He said, smirking. “Yet,” Keith corrected, now inches away from the taller man, and Keith brazenly lifted both his arms up and over the servant’s shoulders, wrapping them around his neck while his hands started, grabbing the back of it under his grip. “I need you in more ways than one,” Keith whispered. The servant groaned, followed by a deep chuckle that almost betrayed a giggle of a young schoolgirl. Keith witnessed his partner’s adam’s apple twitch as he swallowed, playing along. “Well, Your Highness,” hands traveled along Keith’s side, rubbing circles on his hip bones before clutching them under a firm grip, the hold making Keith dizzy with anticipation. He felt his lips go dry, as he glanced from the taller man’s familiar eyes to his lips. “How may I be of service?”_

_Keith grinned, wolfish. “Well, problem number one, as you can see—I don’t know what to wear for the event, automatically I need your help with choosing the right attire,” Keith whispered again, voice intimate at the edge of teasing the brains out of his partner. “Mhm, and?” Keith could see his partner’s eyes dilate, slow heat rising in the air as tension built around them, almost too obvious to see and feel. “Problem number two, my loyal servant, is that you haven’t locked the door,” Keith mumbled, feeling fingers trailing upward onto both his arms, stroking his skin almost affectionately as he stared into blue eyes. Keith arose with goosebumps. “Problem number three…” Keith choked back a smirk. He pulled the hand exploring the skin of his left arm, and dragged it down slowly, lower and lower until it rested above his crotch. The hand moved independently after, grip tightening around Keith as he stroked the length through pajama pants. Keith moaned low in his throat, head thrown back by the delicious friction. Keith soon opened his eyes, looking into the servant’s eyes once more, “Need you…” He sighed, hands tightening around the other’s neck, pulling him in for a kiss._

_The hand over his crotch left him desperate, thrusting against empty air as Keith desperately chased the warmth of skin that had previously enveloped him. Keith groaned into the kiss, his partner’s lips moving against his in a seemingly rehearsed synchronized dancing. He grinned into it, biting Keith’s lower lip before reconnecting them once more, kiss noisy and messy as Keith licked into his partner’s mouth, pushing a bit forcefully through his barrier of teeth. Keith let his tongue rave over his partner’s mouth, exploring it, every space and every teeth, before their tongues dragged against each other, and his servant parted slightly to suck on Keith’s tongue. Keith growled low in his throat, all but shoving his partner against the full body mirror behind him. His head hit the mirror with a silenced thud, and Keith took no time in pulling away, kissing the corner of his lips, his jaw. He went for rougher kisses here, he knew his servant liked it when Keith treated him that way. He would mewl and bend, break under Keith’s hands and lips, all too familiar to him. But how did Keith know all this?_

_The boy moaned silently as Keith attached his lips toward his jaw, sucking and biting slowly, leaving marks that would disappear by the time they were done with what they needed. “Pretty, just for me,” Keith growled against the skin of his neck. “_ Fuck _baby, only for me,” the taller underneath him nodded submissively, tilting his neck bare for Keith to leave more marks on his copper-tone tan skin. “Fuck me,” he begged, hips thrusting into absent air. Keith shushed him, kneecap dragging across the mirror’s surface to hold the boy’s weight between his legs. Keith soon found his hands roaming over his partner’s chest, fingers searching for buttons atop clean fabric._

_When he did find the buttons, he undoes them, one by one, and pulling the shirt off the servant’s back, tossing it haphazardly to land somewhere in between his rows of clothes. Keith ducked his head, tongue coming out to tease along the servant’s trail of hair, upward to his chest, stopped at a nipple before he sucked one into his mouth, the boy under him writhing, crying out with pleasure. “I like the sound of that,” Keith said, tongue darting to pet the sensitive skin, and moving from one to the other right after. He soon got bored with teasing his partner in that way, so he explored other ways on making the servant writhe, he knew plenty. Keith kisses his collarbone, sucking deep, biting harsh enough for it to leave a dark mark. Nothing he couldn’t hide with the uniform, Keith reasoned. He inhaled deep into the crook of the boy’s neck, and shut his eyes. He’s always loved the way he smelled, kind of like home after a long way back home, kind of like comfort, kind of like love—or was it lust? Keith didn’t care._

_He soon got impatient, as he always was, a natural impulse it was for Keith. He growled as his lips disconnect with tan skin, hands grabbing at the belt holding up the servant’s pants. He bucked wildly into Keith’s touch that Keith had to settle for holding one side of his hip down with a strong hand. Keith shushed him again as the servant babbled, moaning nonsense as Keith unbuckled him, seemingly tearing off the buttons of his pants before pulling it down to pool around his ankles. “Your_ Highness _,” his partner gasped, cold air hitting his erect cock as it twitched involuntarily, a cue Keith took to get on his knees and worship. He gripped the shaft with determination, eyes never leaving blue as he raved the underside of his cock with his tongue, dragging the contact as slow as he could manage, before he pulled away to grip the hem of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion before going back to business. Keith licked the tip, oozing with precome that he lapped up, squeezing the head for more. “All you got for me?” he pouted, gripping just below the head of his partner’s cock, already unable to form any coherent words. “Yeah, let me hear how pretty you are,” Keith muttered, taking the cock’s length into his mouth in one go, wrenching a cry from the taller male._

 _“Fuck!” He screamed into innocent air, panting. Keith dragged his mouth up the length, sucked hard at the tip, before going back down, cock hitting the back of his throat, grazing his teeth by the base, then pulling up once more, repeating the process a few times. “Ah… Keith, fuck me please please please—_ Ahh… _nghh” he gasped, upper body bending over slightly, to access Keith’s throat deeper. “Keith, fuck! Ahh—Hhh—fu-fuck,“ Keith groaned around his length, pulling up till only the tip of his partner’s dick was inside his mouth before he increased suction, then continuing to bob his head up and down, hands gripping thighs in a deadly worrying grasp, pulling off with a pop. “Like me like this? On my knees, worshipping your cock like this, hmm?” Keith whispered, voice raspy and deep laced with lust he could no longer contain. His hand was stroking the shaft absentmindedly, fingers moving lazily, how he knew in one aggressive stroke he could finish. The servant bit his lip, nodding frantically. “Yeah?” Keith confirmed, taking the cock in his hand back into his mouth. He bobbed his head up, down, back up, grazing his teeth and teasing, increasing suction and looking_ deep _into his partner’s eyes, hooded them, moaned around the cock in his mouth, sending vibrations all too good for the taller’s sake. His partner pawed at his face gently, indicating how close he was to climax, and Keith took him all the way to the base, the tip of his nose meeting pubic bone as he swallowed around his cock. The servant groaned, low, deep, possessive, before coming down Keith’s throat. Keith swallowed each drop, then pulled off as he wiped the corners of his mouth. He smiled._

_The servant no longer looks amused as he swallowed, tugging at Keith’s hair for him to stand. Keith hummed as he wrapped arms around the boy’s neck once more, now eye level with his partner slumping against the mirror. “Still want me to fuck you?” Keith asked, voice barely above a whisper. The servant shook his head, “Changed my mind.” He leaned in to meet Keith’s lips in a rough kiss, soon open mouthed, licking into each other’s mouths, tongue melting, entwining with each other, the movement so rough it caught Keith off guard, as his partner shoved Keith down onto his back on the couch in the middle of the closet. “A lot of shoving going on today,” Keith commented, soon silenced by the cold air of the room as the servant discarded his pajama pants, revealing how red and leaking he was, desperate for his release. “Yeah, might shove my tongue up your ass next,” he replied in Keith’s ear. His eyes widened, hands gripping, fingers digging into his partner’s back as he littered Keith’s throat with kisses, almost marking him before Keith pushed him away._

_The servant gave him a questioning look, almost hurt before Keith smiled. “Royal court, baby, I can’t risk it.” The servant shrugged, moving on toward Keith’s chest, skimming past his ribcage, tongue darting, dragged across trained muscle before taking Keith into his mouth, returning the favor. Keith threw his head back, ecstasy shooting up his spine as he swallowed heavily, eyes scanning the ceiling before him, when  he feel his partner swallow around the tip of his cock. Keith thrusted upward into his mouth, and his partner had to hold him down after. “Not today,” The servant winked at him, diving back in to suck Keith’s cock like he’s never had it before. He soon pulled off, and Keith whined at the loss of warmth, which didn’t last long as he felt a finger graze his opening, cold with a lather of olive oil Keith didn’t notice. “Wonder what you’d like?” The servant grinned, mirroring Keith’s wolfish one before pushing his finger inside._

_Keith cried out, his brain registering a name, but he’s not quite there yet to remember. Shit, how Keith wanted to scream the name into the ceilings, fill the rooms with a chant of his name, to never forget that name anymore, but yet again, Keith cannot pin point the name yet. He soon moved the finger around inside him, and Keith wanted to scream profanities, but he worried that Desmond or Takashi would walk in on such a scene unravelling before them. Keith’s hand flew to cover his mouth before he cursed continuously, moaning every now and again from the drag of his partner’s finger in and out of him. “More,” Keith muttered, biting the skin of his left wrist. “Please?” he added when he received no response. He lifted his head so he could see his partner’s face, and shit. What a view. Keith moaned as he pressed in another finger, moving it in and out slickly. Keith was gonna die. He was gonna die if he didn’t come soon. His partner growled, seemingly as impatient as Keith was, tired of going slow. He quickly pulled out his fingers as he lifted Keith’s legs, hefted it up his shoulders before he shoved his tongue unceremoniously into Keith’s entrance. Keith keened, long and deep, continued by a whine, and a continuous strings of moans. “Ahh, my god. Fuck,” Keith wanted to scream, wanted to shout a name into the heavens that he knew—he knew he could remember! It’s on the tip of his tongue—_

_The tongue breaking him into small pieces at it reached places Keith never knew could, teeth grazing the skin of his ass as the muscle shoved in and out of Keith, grinding, dragging, the friction killing Keith ever so slowly. The boy opened his eyes, blue almost taken over by black, as his eyebrows creased, sweat dripping down his nose and onto his skin. He was so pretty. So beautiful. So familiar it hurts. Then as their eyes met, his partner groaned, pushing a finger in along with his tongue, the drag of in and out a continuous pattern, tongue in, finger out, finger in, tongue out. Keith was losing it faster than he could help it. The servant creased his eyebrows, looking almost mad, as he pulled his tongue away from Keith, and shoving to fingers back into him. “Ohh my god--  fuc—ngh-ah, ah, fuck please—“ Keith wanted to worship this man, wanted to please him all day all night, let him do whatever his heart desired toward him. That was when the fingers in his as curved, brushing against his prostate. Keith cried out, eyes closed shut as he screamed all that he could,._ Yes, there. Right there, more—

 _The servant’s eyes mimicked Keith’s expression before it softened, pushing in a third finger into Keith, and he screamed a mantra that he’s learnt to memorize during the past minutes, his gut burning, orgasm rushing into his vein. “Fuck—Oh, fuck_ please _—“ Keith pushed back against his fingers, desperate for the jolt of pleasure that was sent all over his body, hunger and lust taking over as his fingers circled around his member, stroking in time with the thrust of  fingers. “Fuck—you’re pretty—so—ahh, my fucking god!”_

_His partner grinned, removing Keith’s hand from his cock as his mouth enveloped around his member once more—_

“Sire, it’s your wake up call,” Desmond called from out the door to his room. Keith jolted awake. His hair was sticking to his forehead, his breath came out in short gasps, and there was a boner leaking in his pants like he was fourteen years old again. “Y-yeah, Desmond thank you!” Keith called out, heart hammering in his chest as his hand clutched his shirt, wet from sweat. He wiped a trail of saliva off his chin, looking down helplessly at the erection cresting in his pajama pants. He sighed, pushing down the material of his pants before lying on his back, trying to remember remnants of his dream by shutting his eyes.

Keith placed a hand over his mouth as his left hand covered his cock, fingers circling the base as his mind conjured the image of the same servant before him, between his legs, his pretty eyes and brown hair—Keith started stroking himself at a slow pace, groan low in his throat. Same pretty face, swollen lips, and his tongue in Keith’s ass—his mouth over his cock, tongue dragging over his length as he swallows down and sucks him further in, hitting the back of his throat. Keith moaned, his fist moving on its own accord before he flipped himself over, cock still in his grip and hand between his teeth, he thrust downward into his fist, moaned long and loud, before pulling up and thrusting back down, the image of fucking the servant’s mouth flooding his brain as Keith moaned over and over again against the skin of his hand, bite soon breaking skin and spilling small beads of blood, leaving metallic tastes all over Keith’s tongue as he fucked into his fist more, movements sloppy and uneven, eyes shut closed. “Ngh—fuck, _ahh… please,”_ Keith moaned into the mattress, turning himself over again, desperate as he stroked himself at a fast pace, begging for his delayed release.

Keith thanked himself that he didn’t forget the images his mind had conjured just minutes ago, these dreams tend to fade as soon as Keith opened his eyes, but it appeared that today his mind plans otherwise. He sighed, gasping against his skin. Keith moaned, his guts burned as he yearned for his release, each drop of his hand had him feeling goosebumps rise atop his skin, and his grip tightening on his cock. He was close. “ _Oh fuck!”_ One, two flicks of his wrist and he’s coming, all over the mattress and his hand. He may have regretted that last part, he thought, pondering on how loud he actually screamed that name as he strokes himself off the high, releasing the grip on his cock soon after, pulling his pants back up as he noticed the heat of shame clamber up his neck and face and ears, the thought of jerking off to a household servant catching him off guard as he flopped face first onto the pillows. Keith feels sorry for anyone who has to clean this mess. He only hopes the blue eyed servant isn’t in charge of cleaning his room. Keith blushed again, screaming into the pillow aggressively.

\--

Keith stared down at his hands enveloped in his black fingerless gloves. The fabric was hugging his skin a bit too tight like a vice. But he turned down Takashi’s offer when he’d asked if Keith wanted a new pair. Keith reasoned that the very tightness of the fabric gives him this weird indirect surge of focus and lets him immerse fully into training. Shiro had shrugged and continued on with their respected training. Today, all Keith could ever think of was that male servant, and how ridiculously blue his eyes were. They gave him a sense of comfort then, now it only awakens the burning in his guts and the lust in his mind. His eyes would lid and his lips would part as he tried to stop conjuring the images from last night’s dream—and what he did after.

His face flushed under the thought, and he smacked himself in the head right after, his ponytail loosening under the grip of the rope around his locks. “Remind me never to get on Desmond’s bad side,” Shiro said out of nowhere, entering the training deck as he was wrapping a piece of cloth over his knuckles, to mute out the punches he was going to make. Last time he didn’t, Keith ended up with a bloody nose and a black eye. Keith prefers not to relive the memory. “You okay?” Shiro asked, raising an eyebrow at the view of Keith hitting himself in the head. “Yeah, peachy,” Keith replied, nonchalant as he started sitting on the ground to stretch his legs. Shiro mimicked his stance, stretching in sync with Keith as he started the small talk.

While blue eyes still stained Keith’s mind, he sparred with Shiro on the boxing mat. Keith gained himself another black eye. Shiro tells him not to get distracted, and not hesitate. While apologizing and compressing Keith’s eye with a frozen bag of beans he stole from Hunk.

 


	5. Solace

Like forgetting the words to your favorite song, it was ever so difficult to remember them again, but you feel them float around in your head like it was some train of thoughts or some appointment that you have to attend to that day. The way certain dates make you feel like, _whose birthday is it today?_ While remembering, feels like a torture as well. Certain continuous heartaches and hopes that aren’t supposed to be there. Like remembering a promise you know for a fact that the other person doesn’t remember and would keep the promise. Or the fact that you know the person you love don’t feel the same way. The thought of them reoccurring in your head several times a day while you think, _do I ever occur to them as much as they occur to me?_

Lance stared at the mirror he was standing in front of, hand wiping away at it with a damp cloth. His sleeves were rolled down now, he was scolded by Katie yesterday for wearing his uniform the way he was. Lance reasoned that his uniform was too big, and Katie offered him a new pair that’s almost too small, but not so. It was just right fitting on his body, but he didn’t really like the strain it gave his limbs when he tries moving. Katie reasoned that the uniforms were made that way, and had given Lance the smaller sized pair. Katie told him to look pretty while serving the royals, and Lance blushed as she winked at him. The way she said _serve_ had Lance’s thoughts drifting into places it shouldn’t have. He didn’t know his moon were the prince. If he did, he would have taken this job long ago just to stare at his moon daily.

            There was a reason why Lance called him his moon, though. He couldn’t quite remember his name. But that was an easy task for Lance, he could just ask Hunk what the prince’s name was. The hard task for Lance, is to stop calling him _his_ moon. He wasn’t his. And Lance fears he never would be.

\--

Keith sips at the tea the servant had poured for him. It tasted almost peppermint, sweet and cold in his mouth, but warm around his tongue and chilling down his throat. He sighed, finger tracing over Desmond’s handwriting that was scribbled on the paper before him. _Evening gala, celebrating Derek and Leona Kogane’s birthdays._ Keith skimmed past, that event would be held next month, by the end of fall, he noted. He then trailed his eyes lower to the upcoming events he has to mark as which ones he wants to attend and which he doesn’t. _Royal court, matter of Helia-Valaven relation on the discussion of—_ Keith lost it at _royal court_ and crossed that one out, skipped to the next one. _Prince Lotor’s birthday, Kingdom of Helia._ Keith pondered for a while. He didn’t really like Lotor that much—but Allura had always said to attend his parties, for they were the best ones. Always fancy with good food and honorable people. Keith placed a tick next to the sentence, and his eyes skimmed downward, resuming.

His eyes darted not only once or twice to scan for the servant from two days ago, and he felt his thoughts remind him yet again of the dream he had from the time. Keith jolted in his seat, the cup of tea in his hand jostling and almost spilling. The servant wasn’t here, maybe he was assigned elsewhere. “Something wrong, Keith?” Leona asked, the first of the rarest genuine gesture she’s shown anyone in a matter of years—maybe that was an exaggeration. Keith shook his head, offering her a smile. “Hot tea, cousin,” He simply said, blowing at the steam rising atop the surface of his beverage, and sipping on it before his eyes resumed on the list once more.

            His eyes soon caught the sentence _Royal ball, Kingdom of Bivell._ That even was for tonight, and Keith thought awhile before reasoning that his fencing practice could wait. Keith ticked that one, placing his pen and paper down on the table before closing his eyes and throwing his head back. He’s got one hell of a plan. He grinned in satisfaction.

\--

Lance squeezed into his new pair of maroon red trousers, clasping the button then zipping it up before he straightens himself up to grab the matching vest. Lance looks up at his reflection. “Daaamn, I look good,” he muttered to himself, palm of his hand dragging over the fabric atop his ass. “Hey handsome, wanna go get dinner together?” he winked at himself in the mirror, snapping his fingers to shape finger-guns before he heard the door to his quarters slam open, and he shrieks in a high pitched sound. “McClain, the prince asked for you to come up to his room and help him with something,” Katie exclaimed, no time wasted as she held a tray of empty glasses in one hand, her small body donned with a stereotypical maid dress that had lace on the fabric and the base looking like smooth satin, her legs clad in garters and thigh high socks. “Hurry the fuck up or he’s gonna beat your ass.”

Katie faded out of the doorway, the sounds of her footsteps echoing in the hall. Lance took a deep breath as he sighed, sitting down briefly on the edge of his bed. “The prince, huh…” Lance said under a breath, his voice a whisper that betrays hesitation, giving way of how worried he was. Of what, he wasn’t sure yet. But what if the prince isn’t who Lance thought he was? What if he wasn’t the moon, and just another guy that looks so much like him? What if the moon doesn’t remember him, like he’s promised? What if-- “Oh and!” Lance shrieked for the second time as Katie’s head popped back into the frame. “Make sure you look your best and be at your best behavior. Second room on the left of the big hallway with samurai paintings on their walls, you’ll know when you see it. Big double doors, edgy and emo away from all the people and noise,” Katie explained, so fast that the words seem to be jumbled up babbled nonsense, but Lance understood every syllable. “Good luck!” Katie managed before her head disappeared once more. Lance sighed again, basking in the silence of his room before he looked up at the ceiling. “Look my best, huh?” He looked back down at the mirror before him, self confidence evaporating into the air as his self esteem was now on the floor writhing and crying with anxiety. He licked the palm of his hand and slicked his hair back, then stood and dusted off his outfit.

\--

Lance’s steps resonated in the hallway as his eyes trailed to every work of art there was, each and every frame hung on the wall was either of the prince, the king, or some raven haired woman that Lance had deducted to be the former queen. Lance knew what happened that night. The night that everyone speaks of. The night when the people knew that the Kogane royal household would never be the same again. That the people living in that castle has changed, and weren’t the same people they used to be. The kingdom of Valaven be doomed, their king would never be the same man ever again. Other than the paintings of the royal family members, Lance finds a subtle amount of samurai paintings mounted on the walls, he hadn’t known that the prince took interest in the Japanese culture. It was most likely because his mother had been Japanese.

Lance ended up before a pair of double doors that looked like they belong in the dungeons as a weapons chamber. But Lance admires the décor swirled in along the wood, carved on its deep mahogany shade that ends at the silver handles that begs to be pulled open. Lance takes a breath as he steps closer, knocking on the door with his knuckles white with the nausea flooding his guts. _What would the prince be like?_ He asks himself. If Katie was right, maybe he’d beat his ass for coming in late. Make him bleed and cry. God, Lance wanted that-- What?

Lance shook the thought away as he heard the sound of a throat clearing, continued by a subtle “Come in,” he tugged on the door handle, finds it surprisingly light and easy to pull back, and he feasted on the view of the sea, the sun setting above it, the skies painted a deep red and blue, mixing into one shade of purple as the blinds haven’t been pulled down to cover god’s masterpiece. A balcony awaiting just to enjoy the view and the breezes more so, ivory colored floor staining each feet of the ground, and the walls colored gold and a subtle deep red, soft yellow light begs from the ceiling, and before his eyes a king sized bed made for the prince, with deep mahogany pillars crafted and carved with the same pattern that adorns the door, one of a bird with vines and leaves and branches and things Lance couldn’t really name. The sheets were pristine white, and the pillows—seven of them—were gray. Sheer white silhouettes the bed, but didn’t betray how soft it would seem to rest his back on it. A loveseat awaits attention at the very edge of the bed, shaded deep royal blue matched with white cushions, and a vanity mirror that withheld beauty products Lance wanted to smell—each and every decanter. One, on the nightstand, filled with deep blood red fluid, was wine. Lance figured, he didn’t think the prince would be one to get drunk. Then again, he doesn’t even know his name. The vanity stands between two doors, one was the bathroom, as Lance now sees the peek of an emerald bath, and the other, begs to Lance’s curiosity.   

Lance turns his head toward the prince who was standing by his vanity, checking his reflection in the mirror, a bathrobe hugging his features. Lance’s eyes trail downward to the swell of his ass. And regretted it the second after. The prince was eyeing him, and Lance turns away as he blushes, the door behind him dragging back on itself to close with a satisfying _click_. “Good evening, Sire,” Lance said, his voice deep, never betraying how nervous he was or how his hands and knees were shaking. The prince smiled, the gesture weakening Lance’s knees more, as Lance tries to return it. The moon was exactly who Lance thought he was. He only never realized he was a prince. Back when Lance met him, he was just a boy who was crying—

“How may I be of service, Your Highness?” Lance cut his own thoughts before he started to drift away. The prince mouths and _oh_ before he looks down at his sandal clad feet. “I haven’t gotten to that yet,” He whispered to himself, unlike any royal would. “Pardon?” Lance manages. “Oh, umm… I have a ball to attend to tonight and—” the prince clears his throat, wringing his hand. “I—I need your help to pick an outfit cause your mom used to do the same, Mr. McClain,” the prince said, his violet eyes scanning Lance’s for a reaction. Lance steps in closer. “You knew my mother, Your Highness?” “Yeah, she—she talks about you often.” “Only the good things, I hope,” Lance smiles, managing a giggle. He saw the prince flush, his lips curling into a smile. “Well, she never really mentions your name, Mr. McClain,”

Lance bows his head, eyes peeking up to see the prince a bit better. He witnesses as the prince slowly walked toward him. “It’s Lance, Your Highness.”

\--

 _Lance_.

The name sounded like the most beautiful thing Keith’s ever heard in his entirety of being, like a choir of angels, like god speaking to him. Keith smiles in Lance’s direction. “Pretty name,” He mutters more to himself, but is sure that Lance could have heard him from the way he bowed his head down further and blushes a deep red. Keith notices the uniform Lance was in, notes that it was two sizes smaller than the last one he wore when he ran into Keith. Looked so much better on him. The red suits his skin tone, and it so happens to be Keith’s favorite color, as well. Makes it ten times more tempting for Keith to literally pounce on him and rip the clothes off his back, mark him up and have him his way, wouldn’t be non consensual remembering the way Lance eyes his ass the moment he stepped into the room. Ha, Keith’s got this in the bag. Keith shakes the thought away.

“Well, _Lance_ ,” he tests the name upon his lips. It felt good. “There’s no need for such formalities. From here on now, we’re friends.”

\--

Lance cocks his head to one side. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

It catches the prince off guard as he went back to checking his reflection in the mirror. “All Leona and Derek ever do was either throw a scone at me or dump almond milk on my pants screaming that I jizzed all over the carpet,” the prince turned in his direction, eyes wide as a grin etched his lips. “They did _what_?” he laughed aloud, his hand coming up to cover his mouth, the other clutching his abdomen. He straightens up and clears his throat after a moment. “Ehm, I mean—that’s rude. And I don’t plan to be that much of an uncultured swine,” Lance looks down on the floor. “I don’t know your name, Your Highness,” Lance voiced finally, after a war in his head on whether he should just ask Hunk and Katie or risk another agonizing awkward moment calling the prince _Your Highness_ after he’s told Lance not to.

“It’s Keith,” the prince said, spreading lotion on his arm. “Keith Kogane. That much I’m sure you’ve figured,” Keith said, turning his head to smile at Lance again. He stood up as he continued spreading the lotion on his arm while he walked. When he stopped, he was standing before a door, with one hand coming up to cradle the knob of the closed door that peaked Lance’s interest just moments ago. “Well, Lance—knock yourself out,” Keith said, pushing open the door as he revealed a walk in closet that withheld the most amount of hangers Lance had seen in his life. Well, considering he _was_ poor and all, he never even _owned_ a hanger. Lance just folds and stacks. The efficient way, mind you. Lance’s eyes raved over colors atop colors, gleaming under the light and the view of a full body mirror covering a good whole section of the wall, with red carpets on the floor and yet another loveseat sitting in the middle of the room atop a blue rug. Lance’s eyes drifted to one end of the room. It had an opened door, within it the full view of the bathroom in all its gold-walls-and-marble-floors glory. Lance gasped, mouthing a _wow_ as he takes a few steps into the room, and reaching out for the first coat he sees. It was long and black, a size he thinks would fit him but would still fall as short on his tall figure. He eyes the fabric and feels it between his hands, placing it back where it belongs once another coat catches his attention on the far end of the room.

Keith watches him, leaning against the doorway as he smiled, then walked out of the room to pour himself a glass of wine. He sips, the taste sending waves of satisfaction down his throat. He begins to slide into his bed, gaining a perfect view of Lance’s ass as he reaches for a hanger above his head. Keith smirked. “Now we’re even,” He mutters to himself, downing the glass of wine.

Lance soon walks out of the closet, carrying two coats and one trouser draped on the crook of his elbow, his one hand clutching a pair of black boots. Keith sat up, bathrobe sliding down his shoulders exposing milky skin. It catches Lance’s attention. He turned away, blushing when Keith pulled the robe back on his shoulders. Lance places the articles of clothing on his bed, and places the boots on the floor. “Okay so,” Lance starts. “Hmm,” Keith hummed as a response, pouring himself another glass as he eyes Lance head to toe, enjoying his entertainment. “I have two coats—” He holds up he first one, which was a deep gray—another one of Keith’s favorite color—it was short, would drape nicely over Keith’s hips, and had black buttons and collar. Keith scrunched up his face, imagining what he would look like in said attire. Gray suit, black trousers and black riding boots. Seems legit enough. The other coat though, was deep brown satin. It was one that Desmond had given him as a birthday present two years ago, the memory made him smile.

“I’ll go for the grey one,” He said, shifting on the bed, now closer to Lance. Lance stammered an _okay_ as he stood aside for Keith to change into his suit.

\--

It was raining out, and Keith was in bed. Beads of rain was splashing against the glass window of his balcony doors, and his covers rose up to his chin, cold encasing his whole body as he shivered, hugging himself further against the mattress and the duvet. Keith opened his eyes, registering what time it was by glancing at the clock on the wall across him. He groaned, pushing the covers off him and started to pour himself a glass of scotch. He thanks Desmond mentally for switching the beverage into something that suits the weather. He scowled when he realized it doesn’t even fill half the glass. “Desmond, come on,” Keith whined, his head thrown back as he downs the shot, swallowing as he made a face. The booze burns his throat in a good way, and he was soon wide awake with his nose stuffed and his eyes dazed. Keith drags his feet to his bathroom and brushes his teeth.

It’s been two weeks since the first time he’d summon Lance to his bedroom to pick him an outfit. And every other day since, he’s been summoning Lance for the smallest of matters. _I need you to help me conceal this bruise for an upcoming_ event, or _I need you to get me the finest bottle of wine you know,_ or even _hey, I’m kinda lonely, mind chatting?_ And on those very days, Keith hasn’t found one solid reason to begin thinking about Princess Allura, or the fact that he has to marry into the throne soon, before he turns twenty one. He’s learned a lot about Lance though, how he has siblings abroad and siblings back in Aramore, and how he was turning twenty soon. Curious how Lance was younger than he was, Keith always assumed that he was older. He seemed wiser, more mature than he was. Maybe it’s because he was toughened by the world whereas he was spoiled ever since birth.

Keith felt like talking to Lance was the easiest activity he could ever choose to do. It’s like the conversation just goes on naturally, fluid like water. He would laugh and curse like he’s never before, not fake a laugh or a smile, not shake hands with strangers or talk about politics or even the weather. It made talking about himself seem so much fun, so fascinating in Lance’s eyes, and for once, Keith could be himself for a change. He smiles at the thought of Lance, and registers in his head that he misses him. Misses the sound of his voice when he talked, misses how his eyes would light up when the subject he brings up excites him or reminds him of a memory. Misses how cold the floor would be under his seated body as Lance chats away and Keith smiles, hangs on every word that slips from his lips. Staring at them like he could just lean in and kiss him, so deep that he would buy the illusion that he’s in love—how did he manage to think of such things?

It was inappropriate for a prince to befriend a servant like this, let alone have _feelings_ for them. _Fuck off,_ Keith said to himself, lets his mind wander and think about Lance once more, feeling butterflies in his stomach as he failed to suppress a smile. He picks up the phone from his nightstand, let the cold handle meet his ear. After pressing a few buttons he’s known to remember in the back of his head, he finds Katie Holt’s voice from the other side of the phone, cheerful as ever. “Good Morning, Your Highness, how may I be of service to you today?” she said, her voice chipper hinted with a sound of staff in the kitchen screaming orders and the clanking of pots and pans. “Miss Holt could you please tell Mr. McClain to bring me a cup of tea? I don’t feel like joining breakfast today,” Keith said, his voice coarse. “Of course, Sire. Would you like some toast or bread and jam, perhaps?” “No, thank you. Tea is fine,” “Would you care to choose a flavor?” Keith pondered in his head before replying, “Anything that Lance would choose for me,” Katie was taken aback at the other side of the phone. Keith bit his lip. Royals aren’t supposed to know their servants’ names. He imagines Katie with her jaw dropped or a confused look on her face, but then she replies through the phone. “Of course, right away Sire, have a nice day.”

\--

“Lance!” Katie called out to Lance who was cleaning the dishes. Lance hummed as a response, black uniform hugging his features that’s seemed to grow bulkier from the past week. He’s grown more muscle, disguising the skin and bones he was just a four weeks ago. “The prince wants you up there. _Again,”_ Lance jolts with excitement, a grin surfacing on his lips as he skipped towards Katie. “Sure thing, what does he need?” he smiles, removing the apron from his waist. “A cup of tea, in flavor of your choice. Poison would do,” Lance looks perplexed by Katie’s suggestion, almost offended. “He’s not so bad, y’know,” Lance retorted, reaching for a shelf that withheld cups and saucers. “I know. Just wanted to tease you about your new _boyfriend_ ,” Katie said in a singsong tone. Lance’s jaw dropped, his face betraying a red shade. He gasps, “I d— _excuse_ you—he’s not my—we’re not—“

“Who said anything about _the prince_ being your boyfriend? Now you just gave it away, good job Lance,” Katie patted him in the back before walking away. Lance calls out after her, “He’s not my _boyfriend_!”

\--

Lance knocks on the door three times, then pokes his head into the gap. “Knock knock,” he says, walking in when Keith greets him with a smile. Keith was still in bed when Lance closed the door behind him, and setting the tea down on his nightstand. “You feeling okay?” Lance asked, eyeing the prince who was still covered with blankets, his nose red and his face paler than usual. Outside, the rain’s evolved into a thunderstorm, streaks of lightning assaulting the sea’s surface. Lance mouthed a ‘ _whoa’_ before he walked over and closed the blinds, the room now dimly lit as Lance turned the lights down to a low setting. “Turn it off entirely, would you?” Keith said from over the bed, facepalming over how wrecked he sounded. Now Lance was going to worry after he’s told him _not_ to. “You sure you’re okay, Keith?”

The use of his name has Keith smiling. He sat up and held the cup of tea in his hand, blowing at the steam. “Yeah, just feeling a bit under the weather is all,” he replied, sniffing the tea before smiling, humming appreciatively as he sipped slowly. He moaned, “Ah, _god_ that’s damn good tea,” Lance flushed, averting his gaze to stare at his toes, rocking at his heels. He’d kill to hear Keith make more of those sounds—can he stop?.

“Lady Grey,” Lance said. “Mother used to make them for me,” he continued. Keith cocked his head to a side, his eyes meeting with Lance’s pair of blue. “Back when father was still in Aramore and my elder brothers haven’t gone to mine in Crillia,” Lance feels tears prickle the edges of his vision. He walks over to the loveseat before Keith, smiling, letting the irony sink in. “Back when we could afford it,” Keith placed the cup back atop its saucer, swallowing the liquid on his tongue. He savors it, like every drop is Lance’s sweet sweet memories of how happy he was before everything turned on him. Keith stared at him with saddened eyes, but he knew better than to take pity on him. Lace swallowed, shivering under the cold air conditioning in Keith’s room. Lance thought that Keith didn’t want to hear the rest of his pity party story, but Keith’s shifted on the bed to minimize the gap between them, the cup of tea still resting in his hand.

Keith offers the cup to Lance, and he takes it, a tear runs down his cheek as he takes in a breath, lets it come out in a soft, silent sob. “I wish things hadn’t changed like it did... Now mother’s ill and I don’t know how to cure her, while I’m slacking off as my younger siblings labor away at home…” Lance whispered to himself, smiling at Keith as he cradled the warm beverage in his hands, absorbing the heat as it seeps into his skin. Keith reaches out, wipes the tear away from Lance’s face, and his hand stays there. His thumb strokes Lance’s high cheekbones, and Lance leans into his touch, their eyes meeting as he smiled softly at Keith. He didn’t say anything, but sipped at the tea before handing it back to Keith, letting the last of his memories disperse into the air. Keith took the cup, shifted and placed it by his nightstand once more. “If that would be all, Sire, I better be going,” Lance said, bowing. He turned on his heel and Keith bit his lip, he could make them bleed under his canines if he hesitated. Remembering what Takashi taught him in his lessons, he opened his mouth and called, “Wait, Lance,”

Lance turned to face him, more tears betraying him as he revealed how bothered he actually was, how emotionally unstable he must be. “I told Desmond that I didn’t wanna be bothered today. By training or courts, dinners or balls—I have the day to myself,” Keith managed, swallowing. _Say it, just say it,_ he thinks to himself. “It would be torture to really have the day _all_ to myself so—” he hesitates, wringing his hands under the blankets.

“Stay?” He asks. The smallness of his voice exposing how vulnerable he was. Lance raised an eyebrow. “On the floo—?” “On my _bed_ , silly,” that has both of them blushing, and Lance ducks, his head bowed down so low to cover his red face that it would sooner fall to the floor. “S-sure,” he manages, his hand closing the door he’s opened, and his feet shuffled toward Keith’s bed. His heart hammers in his chest, thudding as the sound resonated in sync with his pulse in his throat, choking him with anticipation. Keith scoots over to make room for him, lifting the duvet and placing another pillow next to his. Lance unbuttons his vest, tossing it onto the loveseat before he uncuffs his shirt sleeves, rolls them up to his elbows like he always did when he didn’t give two shits about the staff rules. He pushes his shoes off, keeps his socks on, and lifts one foot to climb into Keith’s bed. He could hear Keith’s heartbeat from this distance. He wonders if Keith could hear his. Or maybe it’s just his own pulse thrumming in his ears.

He lays awkwardly a distance away from Keith, the wide bed seemingly doing him a favor. Keith exhales before closing the gap between them, scooting closer to Lance. Lance is having an aneurysm. He takes a breath and closes his eyes. Feels Keith lay on his chest. He hears Keith sigh, then continued by the silence hanging in the room, the sound of thunder and raindrops hitting the glass surface of Keith’s window. He opens his eyes, noticing how calm his heartbeat now was, and how warm Keith was against his chest. He may be coming down with a fever. Lance lets his hand card through Keith’s hair, occasionally stroking while Keith buries his face into Lance’s chest, inhaling his scent and smiling against white fabric. Keith exhales, “Good boy.”


End file.
